


Waiting II

by Noclue Idunno (NoclueIdunno)



Series: Waiting [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alpha Blaise Zabini, Alpha Harry Potter, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Angst, Bottom Draco Malfoy, Chef Draco Malfoy, Crimes & Criminals, Draco Malfoy in the Muggle World, Experimental Style, M/M, Mindfuck, Moral Ambiguity, Not Britpicked, Not Epilogue Compliant, Obsessive Harry Potter, Omega Draco Malfoy, Possessive Behavior, Possessive Harry Potter, Shameless Smut, Slice of Life, Top Blaise Zabini, Top Harry Potter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-11
Updated: 2020-07-03
Packaged: 2021-02-01 05:40:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 36
Words: 63,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21401041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoclueIdunno/pseuds/Noclue%20Idunno
Summary: Harry finally gets he must learn to accept Zabini's place in Draco's life or he will be out.A sequel of Waiting.YOU DO NOT HAVE PERMISSION TO POST THIS ON WATTPAD OR ANYWHERE ELSE. I NEVER WRITE ON WATTPAD. DEAR READERS, IF YOU SEE THIS STORY ELSEWHERE, PLEASE, REPORT IT, BECAUSE I WRITE ON AO3 AND AO3 ONLY.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Blaise Zabini, Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter/Blaise Zabini, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Pansy Parkinson/Original Male Character(s)
Series: Waiting [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1542838
Comments: 170
Kudos: 345





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Harry Potter is owned by J.K. Rowling and isn't mine. No copyright infringement intended. I gain nothing from this. This is a fanfiction offered freely to HP fans.

Father's dead.

He died hours after Mother's death,

The notice tells me.

I'm to go to Azkaban

To collect his ashes.

They cremated him.

The death of his Omega killed him.

The Bond killed him.

His heart burst when Mother's death

Severed the Bond.

He died instantly.

_We deeply regret to inform you that..._

Bunch of nonsense, and then

_Mr Lucius Malfoy died in peace._

In peace?

More like in obliviousness.

Oblivious of Mother's pain.

Oblivious of my pain.

Oblivious of his own pain.

That's how I'll die.

That's how Potter will die.

One day I'll die, and Potter's heart will burst.

One day Potter will die, and my heart will burst.

Either one of us will die of broken heart.

Broken heart.

I used to poke fun at Pansy

For reading sappy stories in Hogwarts.

I'm the one in Pansy's stories now.

When I was in Hogwarts

I thought I'd die if I lost Father.

He was my world.

Pride.

Ambition.

Make our line proud, Draco.

Be ambitious, Draco.

I watched a documentary on the telly

Last night.

Boys, be ambitious, it said.

Some Muggle named something Clark.

He was a professor in a Muggle Hogwarts somewhere.

_"Boys, be ambitious!_

_Be ambitious not for money_

_Or for selfish aggrandizement,_

_Not for that evanescent thing_

_Which men call fame._

_Be ambitious for the attainment_

_Of all that a man ought to be."_

Kiss my arse.

Make our line proud, Draco.

Be ambitious, Draco.

Ambition's got nothing.

Ambition killed Mother.

Ambition brought the Dark Lord.

Ambition brought Potter.

Ambition made me his Mate.

Ambition killed you, Father.

Now you're a pouch of ash

In a jar.

Father, I won't keep you.

I'll scatter you.

But I'll keep your wife.

I'll keep my Mother.

I've placed her in a Muggle columbarium.

But you won't share her place.

She needs to be free of you.

Well, you've followed her to the Beyond,

So she's not exactly free, I guess.

At least let her ashes be free of you.

Father's dead now,

But I feel next to nothing.

There was a time

When I thought I'd die

If Father died.

Turns out I'm fine.

_Be ambitious of the attainment_

_Of all that a man ought to be_.

The Slytherin Prince Draco Malfoy

Would have agreed wholeheartely at that,

But the Draco Malfoy now...

I scoff at that.

I can't be ambitious.

I've seen what it does.

I can't be ambitious.

Because I don't know what a man's _ought to be._

I'm this slut who's seduced Potter, Wizards say.

I'm this pouf who's aching for cock, Muggles say.

I'm an Omega in the Wizarding World.

I'm gay here. Yeah. That's what male Omegas are here.

They have all kinds of expression to describe people like me.

Shirt lifter.

Pillow biter.

Cock sucker.

Nothing I haven't done.

I've lifted my shirt before.

For Potter.

For Blaise.

I bite pillows when I come

With their pricks inside me.

I've more than once sucked their cocks.

Sometimes I laugh.

==========

Father's dead, I tell Steve.

He blanches.

I'm sorry, Draco.

Don't be. He was an arsehole.

Steve says err.

I have to go get his ashes.

Do you want me to come with you? Steve asks.

He's a good friend.

No, but thanks, Steve.

But you can't come. It's uh...

It's very far. Overseas.

Oh. Okay.

Can you tell the manager?

Yeah, sure. When are you leaving?

Today.

When are you coming home?

Coming home.

I realise Steve's become something like a family.

Like a brother.

Draco Malfoy, with a Muggle brother.

Father's ashes will laugh.

Tomorrow.

Oh. It's in France then.

Yeah, I tell him.

Well, Malfoys are from France anyway.

I don't have to feel bad for lying to Steve, right?

I'll bring you candies.

Draco, is everything alright?

No wonder Steve asks.

Father's dead,

But I'm promising souvenirs.

But right now

It's more important for me

To get Steve something from Honeydukes

Than mourning over Lucius Malfoy.

I'll ask Blaise to come with me,

But Potter's gonna ask me, I know.

High-profile Death Eater dead.

Death Eater Dead? That sounds funny.

There's no way the Prophet wouldn't

Make a headline out of it.

Potter's gonna ask me for sure, I know.

See? He's knocking on my door right there.

==========

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Boys be ambitious, that's a quote by William Smith Clark.


	2. After

He lets him wrap his arms around him,

Because he needs something to cover him.

There's been this draft of frigid dread sapping the strength of his limbs.

"It's alright," Potter says. "I'll be with you."

He lets him say words that are meant to comfort forever

But do little better than make the clock seem to tick a little faster.

"How did you know."

He lets himself ask questions that mask answers instead;

Answers that may betray the poise of nonchalance he has adopted

To make the ticks of the clock more bearable.

"I felt something off in you. I came right away before I read the Prophet," Potter says.

He lets himself stifle a guttural sob that threatens to smash his resolve

Not to allow the renovated foundations of his heart be ever breached again.

"I knew he was dead."

"I know," Potter says.

"But I didn't know they would take months to tell. I thought the media would have told the world, what with the Open Azkaban system they have now. I thought--"

_You thought what? That the Bond is breakable? That your father, a Bound Alpha, would have survived the death of his Mate? That it might grant you a glimpse into the way out the Bond you've got with me now? He forged a chain that ensured the love of his life stay Bound and pretty in his room with the string of his life. Of course he would pay, pay dearly. Like I am prepared for you. Like you should for me._

Harry doesn't let himself retort the way his thoughts run in his brains.

They both know he's making a tremendous effort.

"I've got to go for his ashes."

"You can't go to Azkaban by yourself."

"I can. But I won't. I'll ask Blaise."

"I'll come with you."

"Come with me? That hellhole's full of visitors, Potter. They'll tail you, and not simply for your scar. They'll snivel at your feet and blame you for not saving Theirs Truly in time from the lure of the Dark Arts. Oh, I can imagine: _Harry Potter! Why didn't you save my husband? Harry Potter! Why didn't you save my wife? Harry Potter! Why didn't you save my darling child?_ And I'll have to hear things I don't need to hear if you're with me. They'll say _me and my ilk_ stained your sanity, something like that."

"We've got nothing to lose, Skeeter's made sure of that. I don't care what they say."

"I'm asking Blaise."

"Ask him. I'll come with you anyway."

Potter grabs him.

Potter's veiny hand constricts around his arm.

The arm with the faded Dark Mark.

For a flashing moment he wishes Potter's fingers could cover his arm for good.

It's getting insufferable.

Potter smiles.

Potter looks like he's earned the treacle tart.

He pecks a kiss to his ear.

Draco tries to duck.

He fails.

Potter's planted a brief kiss to his ear.

Like a dog.

But he refuses to let Potter in like this.

It's too easy. He doesn't like being an easy person.

Doesn't have anything to do with the fact

He let Potter in his flat the other day.

To cook him something hot

And let him use the showers.

"You can't drive me into a situation, Potter.

You can't make me deal with the unfairness

Of choosing out of a choice I did not ask for."

"I'm not forcing you to choose, Draco."

"No, you're not. I get that part. You won't be the one forcing it,

And that's the problem. Blaise won't be the one forcing it either.

I'm scared of the situation.

Situations tend to get out of control, Potter.

The situation forming out of the tension

Between the two of you will do the job nicely.

And I'll be torn.

Because one part of me will definitely choose you no matter what.

And this, on the day I get my Father's ashes.

Potter, just... I'll see you when I'm back. Yeah? I give you my word."

A rejection.

Rejection's something he doesn't handle well.

When it comes from Draco,

It doesn't feel like a rejection.

It feels like a hammer blow to the back of his head.

He wants to tell him that it feels like a hammer.

He wants to tell him that each word feels heavier than yesterday.

But he knows now even that expression will be rejected.

So he stops, stops and nods.

Nods to stop, stop the shrieks in his mind that tell him to

Have his way with this disobedient little Malfoy

And show him what's right.

He swallows down the impulse.

He placates the Bond's raging waves.

He leaves through the door he came in.

His walk lags like a defeated soldier with an amputated leg.

He Apparates back to either Grimmauld Place or the Underwater Cage.

Draco hopes it's the former.

==========

"What's wrong, Draco?" Pansy asks.

Pansy's sitting on an ottoman, smoking from her cigarette holder.

She's always hated fathers.

She hates Mr Parkinson.

She hates Mr Malfoy, only she has the decency not to say it to me.

She thinks it's a good thing Mrs Zabini has taken matters to her own hand

Like the proper Pureblood witch,

An example to us all.

Blaise ignores her whenever she's on Mrs Zabini's female leadership.

Pansy hates fathers.

She's the kind of person who believes that

More women have been sacrificed by marriage

Than by war, famine, and disease.

She also believes that Pureblood inheritance should be exclusively

Enatic and matrilineal.

She hates Mr Parkinson.

It's nothing personal, she says.

I'm representing all underpaid Pureblood witches.

But you're loaded, Pans.

And Mr Parkinson's named you the sole heir.

She just shrugs, and says:

I believe in _Noblesse Oblige_, darling.

Once I asked,

Do you hate Blaise and me?

She said you guys are different.

Why? We have pricks, you know.

Yeah right, Princess.

She called me a princess, so we had a big row.

We're okay now.

She's always had the decency not to say that she hates Mr Malfoy.

But that's because she hates him for a different reason.

It's not like how she hates Mr Parkinson.

She hates Mr Parkinson, but would drop everything and run to him

If he's ill, I know.

But she hates Mr Malfoy as a person.

That's why she's careful about expressing it.

I can't blame her.

But I'm not sure how to feel about Father.

Pansy is sympathetic, I think.

Yeah. I'm sure that's sympathy there.

She twists her cigarette holder so she can get a clear look at my face

Without the smoke obscuring her vision.

"What's wrong, Draco?" she repeats.

Blaise doesn't ask.

Blaise's sitting on another ottoman across her.

He's coming with me to Azkaban with Pans.

Pansy's _what's wrong_\--

Yes. She's not asking about Father's death.

She's asking about the way I fidget and turn.

The potion's not really working these days.

I feel bad for refusing Potter's offer.

Actually, I feel guilty.

As if I've done something wrong.

Blaise doesn't ask.

I'm sure he knows it's the restless Bond.

His expression isn't accusing, though.

They don't say _I'm sorry about your Father_.

It's been a fact for a long time now.

I thought-- a smallest part of me--

Perhaps he survived?

He's formidable.

It's ridiculous that the death of the wife he bossed around in life

Killed him.

So perhaps? Just perhaps he survived the Bond?

But no.

We all Apparate to Azkaban.

Open Azkaban Policy.

Nowadays visits are easier.

They've removed the Dementors.

No Kiss.

AK, yes.

But that also means there are visitors around.

All kinds of visitors.

Visitors of Father's compatriots.

Compatriots. Forgive me. I mean, Former Death Eaters.

They don't really try to meet my eyes.

Blaise and Pansy avoid them, too.

They want to safeguard their precarious position.

Visitors of vigilantes:

Visitors of criminals who murdered or assaulted Slytherin Purebloods and Death Eaters in aggression.

They try very hard to meet my eyes.

Because wands aren't allowed in.

They try to kill me with their eyes instead.

Doesn't work.

I give them the finger.

They don't get it.

Some do. Most likely Mudbloods.

Because it's a Muggle gesture.

Mudbloods-- the name's quite friendly, actually.

In fact, I call Granger Mudblood all the time.

To her face.

Whenever I'm not calling her Granger.

We still meet.

Mostly about "How are things with Harry?"

Mostly I answer, "None of your fucking business, Mudblood."

She doesn't look offended if I say it.

So I say it all the time.

The Weasel got mad one time.

He tried to hex me.

Granger sent him home.

Granger never brings him to our meetings ever since.

It's surprisingly anticlimactic.

I get an enchanted jar.

Stasis and Vacuum Charms, whatever.

So that the ashes won't decompose.

I give them my wand for personal identification,

They check my wandwood and wand core,

They look at my face,

They scrunch their nose,

They purse their lips,

And give me a jar.

I notice they don't say, "Our condolences,"

Like they do to the families of dead vigilantes.

Well.

Pansy invites us to one of her hotels for dinner.

She holds my hand for that.

It's an unsaid warning that I shouldn't refuse.

I say yes.

It's awkward, because I have to carry a jar in my arms.

I can't Shrink it, because it would ruin the Charms

And rot Father's ashes.

Strange.

I thought I'd cry if I really held the jar.

I don't.

I almost bit my tongue once.

It's surprisingly anticlimactic.

And I'm thinking of Potter, not Father.

I finally realise Pansy's decided to cry in my stead

When she gets drunk senseless as usual after dinner

And blubbers into the 140-galleon pillow.

Blaise takes the chance.

He steals a kiss.

I let him.

I shouldn't have.

Because the next thing he says is:

"Draco, we need to talk."

==========

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> marriage war famine disease part in the chapter, Cruella De Vil's line from 101 Dalmations the movie.


	3. Everything

Stuffed carp.

That takes a lot of work without a wand.

I usually don't welcome that order.

Who ordered that?

I peek through the pick-up counter.

Table number... 11.

That's Potter. Merlin. Bloody piece of work.

It's not enough he's disrupting my life.

He has to order the stuffed carp.

_We need to talk about Potter, Blaise said._

I hate it, but in a way I like it, I think, not the dish,

But how it takes your mind away from

Things more complicated than stuffing the carp.

_Draco, your potion's not working, Blaise said._

I get the carp this girl fished from the fish tank.

She's laughing while she does it.

It's thrashing.

It must be painful not to breathe.

I drive the spike into its skull as soon as possible.

It stops twitching after some seconds.

I don't want it to suffer.

_I don't want you to suffer, Blaise said._

I knife the fish through the gill. One side.

You can't knife it both sides,

Because that will mess the blood around.

You have a make clean cut on the side,

Or else you won't bleed the fish perfectly.

I remember having fish in the Manor.

With Father and Mother.

This is what my elves did to the fish.

I can't ignore that fact.

_You can't ignore the Bond forever, Blaise said._

I gut the fish.

Pull its slimy insides out.

I take care not to cut the gall.

It makes the carp bitter.

The fish is now only a husk,

Its insides all pulled out.

_You'll be a husk at this rate. You might even die, Blaise said._

I lay the fish on a bed of ice.

I cover the open side with a blanket of frost.

I prepare the forcemeat.

It takes a while.

Stuff the fish with it, and sew the carp up with old leek.

_I know you've been stuffing yourself with that potion. You're overdosing, Blaise said._

Crack an egg.

Paint the dead carp with not-chicken-yet yellow slime.

Break the dried brown end of a bread,

Let the crumbs rain down.

And just a hint of butter, not too much,

Because I'll use the oil, too.

_I'm just using a hint of it, I told him._

Wine and herbs and carrots and garlic,

To wipe the fishy smell away.

Potter told Steve specifically

Not to add onions.

I still remember him hating onions.

I bake the carp

In the oven.

The Muggle contraption, I used to call it.

Now the word "oven" comes naturally on my tongue.

Potter hates onions, so I use some lemon instead.

And a bit of parsley. Cauliflowers, cooked not too much

Or they'll simply crumble away

Simmering in the sauce.

_Sweetie, don't let your life crumble over a Bond, Blaise said._

_Talk to Potter. Tell me what he says._

After my captivity that started with a sorry excuse of a blanket,

I learned wandless magic.

Only one spell.

The only charm I can cast without a wand.

Warming Charm.

I charm the carp so it won't turn lukewarm

When it reaches Potter's table.

"I don't know how you keep the food warm all the time,"

This girl Mel in the kitchen grumbled the other day.

"Sometimes the manager gives me nonsense," she said.

"It's all in the hand," I told her, winking.

I didn't lie.

Although it's not the whole truth.

"Wanna tell me how?" she asked.

"Sure, when we get some time to spare," I told her.

The fact is, we never get some time to spare.

Or I make it so.

She forgets having asked days later.

There's a Muggle woman wearing foundation

At least a centimetre thick

Swaying her arse

Walking up to Potter's table.

She _invites herself _to sit.

The hell?

Potter looks extremely uncomfortable.

His mouth's full with fish flesh

He misses the perfect chance to politely refuse.

Politely refuse?

The hell?

He doesn't let me politely refuse.

Why the fuck is he so hesitant with that Muggle tramp?

She's looking at Potter in that totally inappropriate way.

She doesn't need to hold her fingernails under her chin

Doing that,

She's acting just like Celestina Warbeck's team

On the stage, chorusing

_You Charmed the Heart Right Out of Me_.

Why wouldn't Potter just tell her off?

He's certainly had no problem doing that

To other Alphas or Muggles before.

I beckon Steve.

He's been eyeing the pick-up counter

Ever since that bitch sat across Potter.

Steve knows we were... involved.

His guesses range from

Ex-boyfriend to Ex-husband.

He doesn't know we're married, no,

_Mated_ till death do us part.

"Do something," I tell Steve.

"I thought you hated his guts?" Steve tells me.

I give him the look.

The one I give him when he forgets to flush

After peeing. The slob.

"I'm just concerned that

He'll make a scene where I work."

I know it's a pathetic excuse.

But I can't calm the ringing of the Bond

That's beginning to whisper in my ear,

_Get your arse over there and_

_Pry that bitch away from Potter's table._

_Seat yourself across his table_

_And ask him whether he loves your cooking._

_Ask him to compliment you._

"Madam," Steve says in his professional tone

That makes him sound like a bus ticket clerk.

"Mr Potter here is a distinguished patron of the house,

We're honoured to serve his daily solitary dinner."

Potter nods curtly.

The git has that smile, though.

He knows I'm the one who sent Steve.

The witch, and I mean the word

In the sense that Muggles use them to describe

Bitches like her,

Scurries off to her table

Where a group of women are waiting.

Humiliated, she rants quietly,

While her friends make sympathetic faces.

Well. At least she has the sense

Not to humiliate herself further.

I can't suppress

The urge to recompensate.

Now that the meddling fat arse is gone,

I have to get close to Potter.

The potion's not working.

It's stopped working for some time.

Taking more gives me headache enough to

Ignore the Bond,

But nowadays with Potter so close everyday

It's doing nothing.

And why should I be ashamed

Of approaching my Alpha?

Am I not his Mate?

I don't clear my throat.

It's an absolutely abhorrent way to make your presence known.

I let the breeze of my movement brush slightly

On Potter's table cloth.

"Sir," I say, and I can feel my eyes softening

Looking at the way he's trying not to

Shovel food into his mouth

Like he does when no one's watching.

"Is everything to your liking?"

I take the bottle of white wine

And pour some into Potter's empty glass.

Potter looks like the moments

He caught the Snitch

In Gryffindor vs. Slytherin matches.

He used to wave the Snitch to the crowd,

But his eyes used to dart at my direction.

I used to think that the corner tail of his brows

Hardened insultingly,

But now I know that was his jealousy

For Pansy

For Blaise

Who used to comfort me after each defeat.

"Yeah," he answers in his informal way.

I hate me for displaying such vulnerability

Before Harry Fucking Potter,

Rapist Extraordinaire.

"Yes," he mends his answer,

"Yes, I like everything."

He mends his answer for the second time,

"I love everything."

==========


	4. Have

**Draco**

"Meet me at _The Parlour _next block at 10.30,"

Was what I told Potter, setting the dessert plate down on his table.

I certainly did not prepare the tart because it's his favourite.

I had no idea what I was doing, but when I realised it I was bringing treacle tart to Table 11,

The table in the corner,

The table in the corner shadowed by a pillar and the huge terrarium,

The table that the owner always keeps booked for Potter.

Or for Potter's money.

I chose _The Parlour _because it wasn't right across my workplace--

The last thing I need is familiar faces and colleagues noticing.

_Repello Muggletum _and _Silencio _would work,

But it doesn't feel right to cast something over unaware people.

I had enough of it done to me.

By Potter, by Granger.

I don't want to do it.

Potter would cast the charms without a second thought, probably,

But I think I'll just refuse.

Told him specifically not to wait for me.

Told him to go ahead, grab a table as far from other people as possible.

No magic, no scene,

Because we really need to talk in peace and comfort.

_Peace and comfort_, I spelled it out for him,

Because I know his thoughts tend to soar to an altogether foreign plane

Where nothing exists but only him and some apparition of myself

That he conjures up in his imagination.

Thank Salazar he listens, although I don't know

How long this will last.

I'm always watching my step around him because he is what he is--

A time bomb.

It's sad the task of disabling that bomb

Falls to me out of all the Muggles and Wizards and Witches

In our worlds.

At least he has an acceptable sense.

Knows how to shield himself from the public.

Knows how to pick a seat.

That's the one trait I am more than willing to compliment

In that lunatic.

The lunatic who's going to stick with me for good.

Knows how to pick a table

That suits my taste so well.

==========

**Harry**

It's not the first time I've eaten Draco's cooking,

But today was exquisite.

Did you know, you can actually taste the love

A cook puts in his pot?

Yeah, my Draco really went out of his way to positively

Stuff that carp full of love.

He's getting better and better,

Cooking the Muggle way,

And I'm almost blinded with the unfairness that

Random prats get to taste what has been reserved for me

As fate intends.

Sitting here in _The Parlour_,

I think this is gonna be my new favourite drinking hole.

Although it's Muggle.

Draco's in the Muggle World now, so

It's only right I start living the Muggle way too.

Sitting here,

I can see him walking towards me.

My Draco.

_My _Draco.

Say, you say _my _husband, _my_ daughter, _my _father, _my _crup, _my house._

Lemme paraphrase.

The husband that I have.

The daughter that I have.

The father that I have.

The crup that I have.

The house that I have.

The desire to have.

Yeah, I wouldn't say "possess".

Have is simpler.

You use the word so many times a day, you don't even realise you're doing it.

I've done it--have.

D'you have--have.

Had I known--have.

But how many times a day do you use the word

In its perfect,

In its unadulterated definition?

Say--

I have a crup.

These days people will get mad at you--

Magical Beasts aren't things! You can't say that!

But they do treat crups like things, don't they? These Wizards and Witches.

Crups eat what their _Magical Being Companion _thinks is the best for them.

Crups shit where their _Magical Being Companion_ thinks is the best for them.

Load of rubbish.

Crups are _trained_ to eat and shit where it's best for their Wizard _Owners_.

So I don't trust these _Magical Being Companions_.

But I trust Hagrid.

Because he lets Fang eat what he pleases

And shit where he pleases.

Now _that _is a way to treat animals as partners.

Say--

I have lots of galleons.

Fluffy's three heads, that's a fact for me Harry Potter,

But people will be, "You're so arrogant!"

Say--

I have...

In its entirely possessive meaning,

And they'll never leave you alone, oh no,

Because to have is to live but to profess to have is to commit a sin.

Like Old Voldie.

He wanted to have everything there is to have,

And he said it out loud,

So everyone went against him.

I mean, let's drop the Light and Dark for a minute.

Strictly from a _have_ point of view.

I couldn't let him have me, my life and my death,

So I killed him.

With the help of people who didn't want to let him have what they had.

So it's all have against have, you know.

You're just a big fat liar if you deny it.

Oh, these liars, when will it ever be enough for them?

See-- they dream to have.

The Wizarding World's Harry Potter! 

Since when did I become _theirs_? But I can't help it, can I?

My dream is to become a Potions Master!

You mean you want to have that job.

Oh, these people.

They devise so many leeways to avoid admitting _having _on so many levels,

But when I do say it, like **I have Draco Malfoy_,_**

They say I'm mad!

Now you tell me,

Haven't these liars the greatest lie of all time?

They all eat, work, shit, piss, breathe, and fuck to _have_,

But they deny it!

"Harry, it's not right to have someone," Hermione said.

Then why is she so upset when she watches

The handsome Wizarding Actor leaving his girlfriend

On the Teleseer programme?

But I can't doubt Hermione like this,

She's different.

Yeah.

She's my friend.

Oops.

The friend that I have.

So gotta be nice to her.

What wouldn't I give to have Draco Malfoy!

So I've given everything.

Each day, I grow more and more disgusted with these liars,

Liars who got to have their lives out of my sacrifice,

But wouldn't let me have Draco.

Technically he's mine already, there's the Bond.

But the whole world has something to say about it.

What the fuck is their problem?

What do they know about Draco and me?

But if there's one thing I've (see? _have _again.) learned,

I already have Draco.

And I see, Draco's starting to accept it.

I can see it in the way

He bares his neck

When he's standing in front of me.

Like when he said,

Sir, is everything to your liking?

He tried to keep it professional,

But there wasn't any mirror around to show him

How he cocked his head ever so slightly to the side,

Displaying the will to be... _had _the Omega way.

Will the day ever arrive,

When Draco calls me, "My Harry?"

Yeah. Let's wait a bit,

Let's try not to give in to this screaming bug inside me

That buzzes at me like a mosquito midsummer night,

_Have him now_.

It's an illusion, because the fact is I already have him.

So let's wait and see,

How long it takes for him to come to me

Out of his own accord

If I let him have his time.

And let's see,

Let's wait a bit,

How to deal with Blaise Zabini.

I'll come up with a plan.

For now, put on a goofy grin,

And say,

To the vision of loveliness in front of me,

"Draco, baby, would you like something to drink?"

==========


	5. Around

**Draco**

It's weird, this feeling.

Barely an hour ago I was just performing a task not entirely different from what that bartender's doing now,

Although I was in a kitchen.

An hour later and I'm a patron now at a hotspot pub almost deserted at the moment,

Because it's not the weekend.

Thank Merlin there aren't so many people here.

It gets tiring, you would want some time on your own, after cooking for so many people all day long.

My nostrils are damp from smelling food the whole day.

Nights like these I lose appetite. But hungry, yes.

Hungry, a bit, no, a lot, but I never cook for myself because I don't want to lift a finger after work.

So when Potter asks me to choose a drink,

I answer instead that I'd prefer something to eat.

"It's on me," Potter says, I let him treat me,

Because I'm too tired and famished to argue.

And arguing isn't a simple way to start a complicated talk which we are going to have real soon.

Also because I don't feel like refusing Potter. It's getting harder.

On weekdays I prefer to go home straight and eat whatever's lying around (Steve picks something up on the way home),

Chat a bit or watch telly and collapse into the bed,

Repeat the whole thing the next day, morning to night.

This isn't exactly the Muggle adventure Mother and I talked about.

But one adjusts.

"No point in postponing the inevitable," Blaise said in a decisive tone uncharacteristic for him.

Because Bonds can kill, that's why.

I hope this gets solved nicely. I still don't know what outcome I'll face.

I hope it's not something that will get to Blaise.

**Harry**

"I could swallow your hippogriff," is what he says, plopping down on his seat.

When we were still together--we still are, make no mistake--there were times

When he was all _domestic _and affable. Like coming home.

Like he is now. _Your hippogriff_, he says.

"My hippogriff?" I ask him. "You mean Hagrid's? Buckbeak?"

I shouldn't have pointed that out,

Because he stiffens immediately like a mannequin.

He becomes so distant when he does that.

When he realises he's crossed a line into the realm of past familiarity.

I don't like it one bit.

"I mean I'd rather have something to eat," he says curtly.

"Sure, my treat," is what I tell him.

He raises an eyebrow but doesn't refuse outright like he does usually.

My mood soars infinitely just for that.

He chooses a platter of grilled sausages and a mug of beer to wash it down.

He snatches the fork and knife and cuts the sausages into little pieces.

That's how he eats, my Draco. He cuts everything first into small little pieces,

Just big enough to put into his mouth without losing grace

Without getting oil or sauce on his lips.

He nibbles on a piece like he had no choice but to eat the horrible lump of salted mincemeat,

Only because he's famished.

I should have recommended another place.

Why didn't he eat at work?

Why isn't he taking care of himself like he used to with me?

He gulps down a mouthful of beer and grimaces.

The slight bump on his white neck rolls when he swallows.

_Like when he took me in his pretty little mouth_

Yeah, he never was a beer person.

He creases his eyebrows and I know he's trying to suppress the burp from the beer.

It's adorable.

I don't ask why he wanted to meet me.

Because I can guess.

"You must understand this wasn't easy," he says.

He doesn't need to do that to me.

He could just come clean, wear his entire heart on his sleeve,

And I would welcome him. I don't understand why he's always trying to put a distance.

"I can hardly see your face without--"

He doesn't finish saying it.

The tone, though.

I'm not a fool. I know he's referring how I courted him, our time together underwater.

But I know it wasn't all despair for him.

I made sure of it.

I _made sure_ of it.

There were times, there were a lotof times when he smiled

Or looked at me in a truly grateful way

For what I provided him.

He used to look at me like I'm the only light in that house.

But now he's looking at me like I'm some cockblocked nutcase.

He's like a cat, my Draco.

He's all purrs and sweetness when you have him locked in your house,

But the moment he gets out he becomes a stray cat.

He needs someone to protect him. He's an Omega.

That is his nature, that was how he was born,

That was how he was brought up.

So it's only natural he's here now, returning to his Alpha.

He stabs a piece of sausage and examines it like it harbours the secret of the universe.

And I should play the knight-in-shining-armour, shouldn't I,

Because my damsel is in distress.

I should start what he's hesitating.

"Your potion's not working," I say. Because he's gonna take forever to say it.

Because I need him to give me a yes before he decides to ditch me.

I make sure it's not a question.

I don't understand why he's being so difficult about this.

My potion's not working, I need you by my side, Harry,

And I'm going to give him exactly what he wants, he's gonna stop having headaches and be at ease with himself.

I don't understand why he's so at war with himself.

What's so difficult about asking me for something he should rightfully have?

==========

**Draco**

"No, it isn't working," I say. "I have you to blame for that. You didn't stay away like I told you to."

"How rational d'you think it is to ask your mate to stay away?"

"You of all people mentioning rationality makes me laugh, Potter. You aren't exactly the epitome of rationality."

"Draco, let's not argue. You asked me here about the Bond, didn't you."

I want to punch Potter's smug face.

Instead, I take the stainless steel fork and stab the sausages repeatedly.

Potter looks at the way the reddish pink meat shredding to even smaller pieces.

"Blaise told me to speak to you," I say. Blaise has always been Potter's trigger.

"Zabini? So you wanted to meet just because Zabini told you to? I thought--"

I cut him before he can say something about my own desire.

I cut him, because the Bond's actually screaming aloud that a great part of me _wanted _to meet Potter.

"Yes. Without the potion I can't really lead a normal life, can I. I'm getting migraines in the kitchen."

He tries to feign a worried look, but I know better. Potter hasn't been able to hide his emotions since Hogwarts.

What he feels shows right on his face, but I don't even need to look at him to know.

Months-- nightmares, sometimes sweet dreams of time together with him conditioned me to such extent,

I know what he's feeling just by listening to his tone.

He's glad.

Super glad.

"There's only one solution, then," he says. "We need to be together to calm the Bond."

"Don't expect me to come live with you. I have my own flat."

"Fine," Potter says.

Fine?

I didn't expect that.

"Fine, but why don't we spend some time daily with each other? I won't disturb your working hours."

"I work 11 to 9, Potter. I know you don't need to earn your share thanks to your parents and Sirius Black,

But some of us need to work our arse off to make a living. Do pay attention to the toils of the plebeians."

"You know you don't have to work like that. I can--"

"We've been through this. Don't."

"You know, Zabini and Parkinson are right gits for letting you live like this when they live in bloody fucking _Palaces_\--"

"Define _live like this. _I don't like how you say it. And the next time you badmouth my friends, I'm gonna start on yours.

You know exactly what choice names I have for them, right?"

"I mean, you're just too tired every single day, and you aren't even eating well. Let me help."

"Salazar knows you didn't mean that. You judged the way I live, Potter. You were looking down on me."

"Look, Draco, can we just... look, I'll come to your flat when you get off work."

"I hope you bloody well aren't planning to stay the nights. I have a roommate"

Potter looks disappointed.

But he nods.

"...Okay. I'll see you to bed and leave each night."

That's way too intimate.

I should refuse.

But I don't.

I'm so disappointed at myself for already feeling way better than I did.

The sausage pieces, now cold and stiff, looks very appetizing.

Especially to stop thinking what should and shouldn't be.

"Let's start tonight," Potter says.

I should refuse.

But I don't.

==========


	6. Relieved

"How are things with Harry?"

It's Granger.

She asked to meet.

She has the egregious same greeting each and every time.

"Don't you get tired of asking? Isn't the Weasel handful enough for you?"

"Well, Harry's more like family-- a brother. Don't doubt a girl's capacity for love.

And I actually care about you, too, so there's that. You're Harry's Mate, after all."

"None of your business, Mudblood," I give her the same answer.

I hate it when she tries to bind me to Potter.

I hate it when she thinks I should be a member of a great happy family

And have weasels as siblings and a lunatic as a husband.

Granger shrugs.

She gets up from her stool to order her tea.

And my coffee.

I tried to make her come to Starbucks,

Because I didn't really want a long conversation.

But she refused.

"I abhor teabags," is what she said.

Scheming little minx.

I know she doesn't mind teabags.

She just wanted to drag out this talk is what.

So she chose some run-down coffee shop in a godforsaken alleyway.

I must not let her know the cake smells far better

Than the other places.

I must not let her know the coffee is acceptable... more than acceptable.

I must not let her know this place suits my tastes so well,

The hideous faded blue curtains remind me of Wiltshire.

I never knew Muggle London has a place like this.

The chestnuts they used for the carrot cake doesn't smell like they're months old.

The cream's fresh, too.

This place brings my appetite back.

Appetite for food.

Appetite for memories.

Appetite for sweeter things in life.

I must not hope, though.

I know now hope doesn't exist. Circumstances exist. Reality exists.

Hope... no. There was a time I hoped once. I don't anymore. I don't want to be disappointed.

She couldn't have foreseen my tastes, could she?

Not even Granger can prophesize like Trelawney.

She's so bad at Divinations.

Must be pure luck.

She never really reacts to my insults.

She seems relieved somehow that I throw her the slurs.

Sometimes she even expects it,

But I don't know what the fuck is wrong with Granger.

The punch she struck me for calling her a Mudblood back in Hogwarts

Isn't in her now.

Or is it?

I don't know.

At least she doesn't do it anymore.

I know she's still the mean little vixen

To saboteurs and competitors of her toy shop.

Now that she's quit the Ministry,

She's gone to Weasel's Wheezes and became the CEO

For George Weasel.

Her husband the Weasel's her sidekick.

Seems like tough job for an airhead like Ronald Weasel.

Granger doesn't give me shit except when it's about _How are things with Harry_,

And she does take the shit I give her in silence,

So I tolerate her.

I wonder why she does that.

She used to fight back.

She stopped getting angry or offended at me since

The fiasco at St. Mungo's, now that I look back.

I'm gonna hex her if I ever notice signs of pity.

She's doesn't look at me like she pities me, though.

I can't figure out the thoughts she has when she looks at me.

But it's Granger's business,

So I won't pry.

I won't pry, but I have a rough picture.

But I won't say it.

She drinks her tea and I drain my coffee quietly.

We meet regularly but don't have much in common.

We meet often enough but haven't got topics to talk about.

The only thing common we have is the War,

Which none of us truly care to mention,

And Potter.

She's gonna ask me forever, I know this.

Why not tell her if only to shut her know-it-all mouth.

"Didn't Potter tell you?" I say.

"Harry doesn't tell us everything, especially when it's about you," she says.

"He's coming to mine every night to calm the Bond," I say.

Granger's eyes twinkle.

I so need to slap or punch her.

I don't, though.

"Oh!" is what Granger says. She doesn't add anything.

She knows better than saying "I'm happy for you."

Because she's happy for herself and Potter.

Not me.

"How was it?" she asks.

I sigh.

She's never going to stop wanting to know.

"It was... effective," I tell her.

==========

**The night before**

Steve is already home.

Potter's visit wasn't planned, so I catch him smoking a joint on the floor,

Grinning sleepily at the telly.

I hate that stuff Muggles smoke.

And the drugs Muggles use, too.

"Steve," I use my stern voice.

He doesn't notice.

"Yeah, hey, Draco, what's up," he says, grinning all the same.

"Hey yourself. How many times do I have to tell you it doesn't end at weed?

It starts there, you know. You should stop."

Steve doesn't know I have a specific reason for hating drugs.

Potter and his Amortentia.

I glance at Potter.

He flinches.

"Let's air the room. Merlin, you've filled the entire flat with that smell."

"I'm not Mollin, Drakey. I'm Steve."

Oh.

"That's what I said, you must've misheard me. Potter, open the window."

Steve giggles as Potter stomps past him towards the window.

_Ooh, Hottie Potter_, he says, giggling.

Potter ignores him.

I don't ignore him.

"Steve, why don't you retire for the night?"

"Right away, milord," he says. "Drakey likes to imitate period shows."

Muggles think I'm a costume drama nerd, I dunno why they think that.

They say I speak like the actors.

Memories of past.

The Manor, Father, Mother, and proper manners.

Steve walks to his room with a gait.

A minute later he opens his door.

He throws something at me, giggling madly.

Potter rushes at me and pulls me into his arms.

"What the fuck," he demands at Steve.

Steve winks and shuts his door.

Potter picks up the glistening tiny pack from the floor.

...It's a condom.

I'm gonna kill Steve tomorrow.

"Not a word," I tell Potter.

I whip out my wand and Banish the thing away.

Potter's smirking.

I wish I could stop the blush creeping up my face.

It makes me look like the Weasel's fat head.

"You used to take a bath every night," Potter says.

"Yes, but not when I'm too tired. I shower in the morning nowadays.

I'm going to bed now, busy day tomorrow."

Potter follows me into the bedroom. "So... how are we gonna do this?"

"I'm doing nothing, Potter. I sleep. You do the trick up your sleeve to calm the Bond."

I shouldn't, but I feel bad for snarking at Potter.

Since I'm the one who sought him out.

"Can I touch you? That works best," Potter says, hopeful and overeager.

"If I feel your paw touching anywhere else than my hand,

I'm gonna make Aunt Bella's _Crucio_ feel like a joke."

"Deal," Potter says. I plop down into my bed and cover myself with the blanket.

This is the moment I love best in life.

When you feel your body relax in bed,

Soft fabric soothing your limbs tense from the day's work.

Except there's something else here.

Potter's calloused hand ghosting over my own,

Fingers hesitant and then determined when I don't pull back.

The moment our skin makes contact I feel so at peace

That I sigh in relief.

Potter has the same reaction.

"Draco," he calls, and lift my hand up to his lips.

It feels so right I don't pull back.

It feels so wrong because I'm reminded of Blaise suddenly.

My last thought was about Blaise and his brown fingers

When I drifted into sleep, comforted by Potter's fingers.

The Bond stopped ringing.

==========

"You didn't ask me about that day," Granger says as we step out of the cafe.

"Which day," I say.

"I cast the surveillance spell on you. It was entirely my own volition. Harry had nothing to do with it."

I laugh. "I know. Potter told me."

"He had nothing to do with it, I promise."

I sigh.

"Granger, sometimes I think the universe is playing a big fucking prank on me.

It's so unfair, a Boggart would bloody say _riddikulus_.

Potter has no idea how lucky he is to have someone like you,

Someone who wipes his arse no matter what smelly mess he excretes from his

pompous Alpha arsehole. Yet he still dogs me like a dog, seriously.

I told you I know, Granger.

I also know Potter had nothing to do with escaping conviction.

It was you, wasn't it."

I leave the alleyway, annoyed.

I turn back once more, and ask,

"Does Weasley know? Or was it just you?"

Granger looks ten years older.

Or maybe she is really ten years older.

I don't wait for her answer as I hasten my steps.

I'm relieved I feel fine without certainty.


	7. Guilt

**Hermione**

"I don't get why you keep meeting Malfoy,"

Ron is sulking when she returns.

"Harry's an Alpha, Mione.

He knows how to put little ferrets like Malfoy on a leash.

Though he's a bit intense about it."

"_Intense_ is certainly a way to put it, I'm sure," Hermione answers,

Setting her purse down next to the table lamp.

"I don't want things to blow into some uncontrollable mess this time.

You know what happened last time."

"Depends on what you mean by last time," Ron says, lips jutting out an inch,

Unhappy.

"Last time the ferret called you the M-word.

I don't get why you keep letting him call you that."

By now Ron is already fuming, incensing his own anger.

"Should've put the git in his place.

Knew he'd turn out an Omega, the pointy midget had it back in Hogwarts."

"Ron!" Hermione yells.

"What?"

"Ginny's an Omega, too. Why would you say that?"

Ron pretends to play with the prototype Glittering Canine

They're going to release in the coming month.

"Mudblood is just a word," Hermione says.

"You're so convinced by it. Do you believe my blood is made of mud?"

"What? No!" Ron says, aghast. "But doesn't mean I shouldn't get mad for my wife.

Mione, seriously, why do you let him do that?"

Ron looks at her straight in the eye.

Hermione sighs.

"I don't give two Knuts, Ron, I really don't, to what Malfoy calls me.

Let him say what he will.

One of these days we need to--_you _need to--really come to terms that he's Harry's Mate."

"Harry's gone bonkers," Ron says. "Why would anyone fall for that slimy prat?

One of these days, I'm gonna beat that little shit to a pulp."

"Just don't say that when Harry's around," Hermione says.

She doesn't tell him the real reason.

She doesn't tell him the guilt's eating her up from the inside,

That she can't hex the balls off Malfoy for calling her a Mudblood,

Because she feels so guilty.

Hermione Granger has--

Hermione Granger always had a crystal clear perspective looking at the world,

Despite her books, experience, and career,

She is still none the wiser answering small questions.

Small questions such as,

_What if your best friend has raped someone who you hated for so long?_

_What if in a moment of agitation, you helped your friend escape the consequences?_

_What if you feel as if you need to see,_

_See where it'll all go in the end?_

_What if you feel responsible?_

_What if you see both a saint and a sinner in Harry?_

_What if you see both a victim and a persecutor in Malfoy?_

_What answers are there?_

_Is it even right to try answering those questions?_

Hermione shakes her head.

Ron lifts an eyebrow.

"I'm in for a big dinner," she says.

"Fucking finally! So no more of those health green stuff tonight?"

"No. Let's grease up our tummies."

Ron's hearty laugh makes her forget her guilt for the briefest moment.

But it's still there.

It still festers, still whispers,

Still peeks from in-between her eyes.

==========

**Draco**

Blaise's grin isn't forced when I visit the Palazzo.

Pans isn't around. She's away on some "self-finding travels" in Wizarding Transylvania.

Liar.

I know she's on V-tour.

V-tour, we call it, the Pureblood aristocracy,

It's basically a sex tour.

Vampires are known for their endurance.

And looks.

And Wizarding Transylvania has _establishments_.

Costs a fortune, but nothing to Pansy Parkinson.

And her insatiable dominatrix libido.

With a partner that never tires.

It's been a while since I saw Blaise in person.

We talk through the Two-way mirror,

But it's been a while since I saw in person

Those lips parting to reveal gleaming teeth

Or those eyes that arch in genuine welcome

Whenever he sees me.

"Bring refreshments for Master Draco," he tells his elf.

Master Draco.

I've become uncomfortable with elves in general.

Doing menial labour in the Muggle World,

I find so much in common

Between myself and house elves.

But I stay quiet.

I am neither Blaise's Mate nor a Pureblood personality anymore,

But he still does that.

And I let him.

Because I don't want to shatter

His need to incorporate me into his world.

It's an illusion all the same,

But I won't break it.

Or fight it.

Blaise dives straight for my mouth,

Pushing my lips with his tongue,

Smiling all the way.

The kiss is messy because he's laughing.

"Stop laughing," I tell him.

His arms lock around me, squeezing.

"Stop it," I say, because his elf's reappeared.

He stops, but his fingers keep rubbing my waist.

The elf sets a tray on the table,

Face as expressionless as a statue.

The elf bows deeply and retreats.

Blaise stops the elf.

He picks some candied cherries and gives them to the elf.

The elf receives it, eyes brimming with tears of gratitude.

Blaise stops the elf's unending blessings with a hand.

The elf disappears with a pop.

"I've missed you so much," Blaise says,

Feeding me an ice mice.

Ice mice-

Yellow-

Lemon-

Potter-

I don't let him notice.

"Me too," I tell him.

It's all wrong.

It's all wrong.

The scent of a different Alpha.

Time with Potter has calmed only the adverse effects of the Bond.

Time with Potter actually strengthened it.

I resist the urge to push Blaise away.

I keep reliving how Potter tried to get under my blanket

Only to earn a kick.

Then he held my hands until I slept.

His breath on my fingers lulled me to sleep.

I should really be in Harry's arms now, not Blaise.

It's all wrong.

"Blaise, I'm sorry," I say.

"For what?" he says, pulling back to look at me.

I don't answer.

I suppress the Bond as best I can,

And return the favour by hugging him back.

I swear to myself I'll never let go.

I won't let the Bond make me do something cruel to Blaise.

If he's noticed, he doesn't say anything.

I wish he'd ask me about Potter.

How was it? Did you talk with Potter?

But no. He doesn't say anything.

Blaise and Potter have surprisingly similar habits.

They both like to smell my hair.

I'm reminded so strongly of Potter.

Merlin,

What am I going to do with this?

"Blaise, I'm so sorry," I try again.

This time, he answers.

"It's alright. You're here, that's all that matters."

The guilt makes me bite my lips.

I successfully blink back the tears.

Endure the guilt,

Don't let it brim over.

==========


	8. Leaving

It happened again on my way to the restaurant.

"Well, growing up in the city I've seen plenty skinny blokes,

But that one over there's a pouf," some guy says.

He looks like any other person you won't remember

At the end of the day.

Not that his remark's particularly biting, no.

Not that he does anything else than snickering none too discreetly.

Same sex alpha-omega couple isn't too rare in the Wizarding World,

So I don't really understand Muggle concern over it.

Apparently it's something... _queer_ is the word they use,

Queer here. Strange. Out of place.

It doesn't feel so good, however,

Being an object of ridicule.

Merlin, I'd been a right little bastard in Hogwarts.

I'd even messed with Crabbe and Goyle's looks.

Not to mention the Gryffindorks.

Well, I thought I'd always grow up an alpha.

But you don't get to choose, do you.

So it must have been either bad mood or remorse that

Made me say,

"I'd like some time off" to the manager.

I know I have the right to ask that.

As blatantly as I put it, because I've been working non-stop.

And I know Muggles have this codex on working hours.

They don't have Magic to trace information like that,

So they have these councils for workers like me, I know.

But knowing that didn't make me request a leave.

I think it's the circumstances, again.

You see, an owl arrived.

==========

_Dear Zabini (yes, that was deliberate, Blaise) and my darling Drakey-poo,_

_Magical Transylvania is a complete and utter... wonder!_

_It's brilliant each time i revisit._

_No, I wasn't going to say mudheap like I usually do._

_Oh. And before we start, if I see anything, anything remotely looking like "V" in your reply,_

_I am going to hex both of you. One of you, actually._

_Blaise is going to take Draco's share, too._

_I'm not here for V-tour like you dunces no doubt suspect._

_Alright. I may have indulged before, but not this time._

_Come here. That's an order. I'm not returning to London any time soon._

_And I assure both of you that Draco will find none of the Death Eating nonsense_

_Or the dreary Muggle lifestyle here._

_Or other... Undesirables, if you get what I mean._

_We're staying in a castle I bought from a she-vampire._

_It took a while until I had to scour the place to drive away the bats._

_As in, bats. The animals. _

_I'd prefer elves cook, but Draco can, if he wants._

_Much love, and double for Draco,_

_Pansy Parkinson._

==========

"Not today," the manager says.

"Not today," I repeat.

"When?"

"Day after tomorrow. It's rather sudden, I know."

The manager stops looking at the ledger.

"Well, you've certainly worked too much," he says. "How long?"

"Two to three weeks. Is that too long?"

"That's long. You mind I ask what this is for?"

"Travel," I say. He narrows his eyes.

"Not exactly a good excuse. Add up."

"Travel to rest my tired bones and mind, renew my palate to better serve

this establishment, and catch up with my family, whom I haven't met for a long time."

He thinks a bit.

"Fine. I'll make it a month.

We wouldn't have managed without you beating bones over the pot, after all.

It's on you if someone complains about the food while you're gone."

"My apologies, and thanks."

"There you go with the flair again," he says, smirking. "The guys in the kitchen will be fine, I think. But a shame."

I tried to apologise again but found my tongue tied of another thought.

He's right, this is rather sudden.

Too sudden, in fact.

Too sudden, I didn't think how I'm gonna tell Potter.

Or how he'll react if I left without telling him.

Worse, what if he asks to come with me?

==========

"You can use the entire flat for yourself while I'm away, just make sure you clean up," I say.

"It's not fair," Steve says.

"What's not fair?"

"You get to go to the Dracula place, while I'm stuck here!"

"Bollocks. You're starting university like you always wanted.

What wouldn't I give to be your age again."

"I'll be older than most freshmen."

"A couple of years in life means nothing in the bigger picture," I tell him.

He stares at his toes for a moment. They wiggle.

"This place is gonna be huge without you around."

Aww.

"Hey," I say. "I'll be gone only for a month. Less, perhaps. I don't know.

I'll bring gifts. Guess what, I'll make it expensive. Super pretentious."

"Make sure it's something shiny and sparkly."

"I promise. By the way, no drugs in our flat. Not even weed."

"Yeah, mum."

"I'm serious."

"Okay, okay."

Steve opens the fridge and takes out a can of beer.

"Hey Draco, what am I supposed to tell Harry if he comes?" He says, slurping the dripping liquid.

"I'm gonna tell him myself before I leave. You won't be dealing with him, so relax."

"You know, Harry's so in love with you, yeah? He looks at you like he's, I dunno,

like you're the only person in the room, on the streets... That's storybook love, mate.

You should give him more credit."

Sometimes Steve is the most annoying person in the world.

"Steve, you've no idea how much credit I've been giving to Potter.

Let's put it this way-- He was my Captain America."

"And he's not now?"

"It's complicated. Things happened-- we're different people now."

Steve shrugs. "I just hope you find happiness, Drake.

You're hot this way, mellow, sad-- but I hope you brighten up some day."

I give him a kiss on the forehead.

I've never liked being an only child despite Mother's pampering.

One good thing that happened in the Muggle World--

I've found someone like a brother.

"Careful, there," he says, winking, "You don't want Harry to know."

I laugh out loud.

But a part of me can't deny it.

Yes, that brotherly kiss would have annoyed all the strands of Potter's messy hair.

==========


	9. Butterfly Effect

It's the last thing I want to do,

But I have no choice.

I'm knocking on the door to Grimmauld Place.

The last time I was here was to visit the Blacks.

I was a runny-nosed runt back then.

Potter doesn't have the place under Fidelius anymore, surprisingly.

"I knew you'd come here one day," is his greeting.

He's wearing only a sweatpants, holding a bag of Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans.

"Please. We just met last night," is my reply.

Potter can be a little, no, too dramatic sometimes.

Although he says I'm the dramatic one.

"Mm," he nods before throwing the door wide open, stepping aside.

The git's not ashamed of his bare torso.

"Come in, Draco," he says, throwing a cheap smirk

He used to flash for magazine covers.

"I expected an elf to get the door. What's his name-- Kreacher?"

"Yeah. He's getting old, can't hear things too clearly."

"What a complicated way to paraphrase _deaf_."

"Don't do that," says a frowning scarhead.

He takes a purple bean from the pack and chews.

He grimaces.

"Don't do what," I say.

I make sure to raise my chin.

He hates pointy chin.

He hates pointy chin to the point of biting it

When he used to fuck me.

"You're provoking me, you do that when you're uncomfortable."

He crosses his arms and leans on the wall.

He shoves a hand down his sweatpants, the boor,

And starts scratching.

I can smell the Alpha stink exploding from his bits.

"Stop it, that's disgusting."

"_Just _disgusting?" he says.

"I'm leaving for Transylvania," I break it to him as a reply.

Need to finish this before I start appreciating Potter's body odour as musk.

"Trans-what? Transylvania? As in Romania?"

"Yes. Pansy. She's got a new property there.

We're invited to her housewarming party."

A vein bulges on Potter's forehead.

It's gone really quickly, though.

Potter smacks his lips to calm his temper.

And he asks, "How long?" Just like the manager.

"A month," I say.

He blinks several times.

"A month, and you said... _We_?" he says. "Parkinson's there already. And you're leaving with... Zabini?"

"Of course, Potter. Blaise's my--"

"Your what," Potter says, advancing.

"Back off!"

"Say it. What you meant to say just now. Your what?"

"_Stupefy!_" I fire the spell.

The wand was already in my hand when I realised it.

"_Protego,_" he says.

No wand, no motion. He didn't need to spell it out.

He did that to annoy me.

My hand trembles as Potter takes another step.

His fingers slither on mine, and I lose the wand.

The useless piece of wood drops on the floor with a clatter.

I struggle.

In vain.

I'm locked in a vice grip.

He doesn't budge.

"Shh," he says very quietly, patting my back.

His skin is shockingly hot, like hot shower.

Magic.

And I realise he's really angry.

The bag of beans bursts.

Rainbow beans bounce and scatter here and there.

I have no idea how it's always like this between Potter and me.

It's always a fight.

The thrum of his magic sends shivers up my spine.

"Look at you," he growls.

"Look at you, do you know you're baring your neck right now?

Hear that? That's your heart. And your smell-- God, Draco,

This is what you really are, darling.

Anxious to obey and please."

I can't really distinguish between fear and excitement in Potter's presence.

But I hold on to what I'm used to.

"You sure you're not delusional?"

I'm not proud of the way my voice shakes, fading from shrill to faint.

"You don't need off time in some backwater Vampire hole," he says.

"Stay with me. I'll take care of you. You'll want nothing."

"Potter, Blaise and Pansy--"

"**Blaise Blaise Blaise Blaise!**"

He roars, pushing me.

My ribs bump onto a pointy corner of a table.

It's so painful, I can't even scream.

His raging magical aura is gone in an instant.

Potter's holding me, and the pain's gone instantly, too.

"Oh, baby," he says. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you.

I just don't know... I've been waiting so long.

I tried to keep my distance.

I thought this was working when you accepted me into your flat.

But every fucking time I step back,

It's always Blaise this and Blaise that.

Draco, how long must I wait?

Should I just forget everything and do as I want?"

"You already know Blaise's helping with my heat," I say.

"Helping? More like enjoying," he says. "Look, Draco, I'm not abnormal.

This is the normal reaction of every fucking Mated alpha out there.

I'm Saint Potter, as you say. Godric fucking Gryffindor, how many alphas would allow their omegas

Screaming in pleasure impaled on some random cock?"

"Blaise and I share memories more important than a Bond," I say.

I can't stand Potter's self-righteous sermon.

"You and I have nothing to do save the Bond you forced on me."

He steps back.

He looks hurt.

He quickly masks his expression to a mocking sneer.

"You really think that?" he says. "You think an alpha-omega Bond means nothing?"

"People like you, Potter, and the Dark Lord-- people whose magic is so powerful

They merge with it-- tend to overestimate magic. Like my father.

The Dark Lord-- and my father--

They placed so much significance on a funky picture of Skull and Serpent.

It's juvenile, if you think about it. Look where it got them.

Like you. You're juvenile. You place so much meaning on the bite mark

You put on my neck.

It means nothing.

I thought you changed. I should've known you of all people wouldn't change so easily."

"Why did you come here," he says. "You're making things worse."

"_I'm _making things worse? You're hopeless, you know that?

I cared enough to tell you my whereabouts so you wouldn't bother

People at my work or Steve to track me down.

Or go mad by yourself here in Grimmauld.

But even that was a mistake, I see.

Potter, nothing you do will change my plans.

I have friends, I have a job and now a vacation.

I will carry out my plans.

I won't break our arrangement.

You will resume your nightly visits, if you want, once I'm back."

"Don't go," he whispers.

"I didn't stop you when you went to Zabini for your heat.

That was because I knew I could reach you.

Don't go where I can't feel you."

"It's just a month," I say, feeling heartless.

"Potter, you've got to make your own plans.

You have friends too, don't you.

Get a job just for the sake of it even though you don't need one.

Stop making me the centre of your world.

That costs my freedom. You can't have my freedom."

I don't look back as I walk out.

He doesn't stop me as he watches me.

==========


	10. Breakthrough

"Welcome, welcome! Oh, my baby Draco, I missed you so!"

Pansy extends her arms,

The pearly sheen of her cocktail dress

Refracting into glowing rainbow.

She has her hair braided, knotted up into a giant coil of jet black hair.

The top of the coil's clasped with a snakehead pin.

With emerald eyes.

Black hair, emerald eyes.

Cunning as a serpent.

Draco is reminded of Potter.

"That's new," Blaise says as if Pansy's dress weren't new at all.

"The very best of Lucrezia Giarello, Magical Rome's best robemaker," replies a proud Pansy.

She adopts a sexy pose.

Blaise snorts.

"I prefer Madam Malkin," Draco says.

"Preposterous! This, darling, is a masterpiece of an artist who knows

The right figure for her works. Malkin! That old hag sells everything from baby mittens to lingerie--

A peddler. Lucrezia, on the other hand..."

"Yeah, right," Blaise quips, fingering the collar of his favourite Malkin shirt.

"Well, at least you did say the exact truth," Draco says.

"There's nothing here to annoy me. In fact, there's... nothing for miles around."

Hills, trees, and a bleak castle in the middle of nowhere.

"Take it to Pansy to paraphrase _lack of civilisation_ into lack of _undesirables,_"

Blaise complains.

"Shut up, you. By that of course I meant Saint Potter.

What better place to savour peace and quiet for us Slytherins

Than this? London's getting crowded with mudbloods.

And no ex-Auror Weasley wives to dog Draco's steps.

That Granger's beyond salvation."

Pansy examines her manicured nails, glittering gold and silver.

"Well then, are you ready?"

Blaise and Draco direct confused gazes to Pansy.

She removes the emerald-eye serpent pin

And taps it with her wand, twice.

Draco and Blaise are spirited away from where they stand without warning.

"Private Portkey, darlings," is Pansy's echoing voice

As the three zoom into a grand hall of jet-black marble.

"So... I take it there's no entrance to this place?"

Blaise says, straightening his crumpled shirt.

Draco wobbles on his feet.

Blaise steadies him, laying a casual hand on his waist.

"Security and privacy above all else," Pansy says.

"This _was _a vampire lair, mind you. No way in, no way out.

Anti-Apparation Ward in place, only a private portkey works.

Rest assured, not even Potter's sniffy nose can poke into this castle."

"Can we not talk about Potter?" Draco is annoyed.

He grits his teeth, thinking about the way he parted with Potter.

Between triumph and guilt, Draco is angry to find that guilt

Occupies the greater part of his heart.

"Of course, darling. No Potters," says Pansy,

Already familiar through the long Slytherin dungeon years

With Draco's notorious temper

When it comes to Potter.

==========

Blaise proposes a tour to elevate the tense mood.

Apology isn't Pansy's forte,

She makes it up by chatting cheerfully,

Appraising each and every corner of the castle.

"And this, is what I call a proper specimen of magical fine art,"

She says, motioning at a long corridor

Filled with portraits.

Pale skin,

Bright eyes,

Red lips,

Emotionless ethereal faces.

Some breathe with their mouth,

Showing fangs.

"These are all vampires," Blaise says.

"An astute observation of the obvious," Pansy jeers.

"Any reason this is different from theportrait walks we have at home?"

"The she-vampire who sold this place

Called it the Hall of Stories.

Apparently each portrait is charmed

To tell stories. Legends, jokes, such things."

Draco approaches a portrait.

"Tell us a story," he says.

The woman in the portrait

Opens her eyes slowly.

Draco isn't surprised to find red pupils

Staring at him.

"Not for free," the pictorial vampire says.

"A drop of blood to moisten my parched canvas."

Draco shrugs, then cuts the tip of his thumb

With a spell.

He smears the oozing blood on the canvas.

The liquid sinks into the surface,

And the entire picture seems to brighten up,

Dull colours lightening up into

More vibrant shades.

"Oh, it's been too long!" the vampire says,

White of her skin shifting to cream,

Looking almost human.

"Now, which story would you like to hear?"

"Shouldn't you give me a selection first?" Draco teases.

The vampire narrows her eyes.

"A feisty one. Very well.

How about a tale of Desiderius the Foolish,

The most imbecilic vampire in history?"

"Not in the mood for funny story," Draco says.

"A picky one, you are.

Desiderius tried to create a vampiric dragon

By biting into a Hungarian Horntail's nape."

"Must've riled the bloody dragon so bad," Blaise says.

"Yes, and the Horntail's dragonfire incinerated him.

Now we all know dragons cannot be a night-kin,

And that vampires are not immune to dragonfire."

"Would've been a Gryffindork if he attended Hogwarts,"

Draco says.

Pansy nods in agreement.

"Pleased to have amused you,"

The vampire chirps cheerfully.

"That's it?" Draco says, "I didn't even get to ask for one."

"A whiny one, you are," the vampire says.

She falls into a brief contemplation

Before raising her eyes in renewed vigour.

"I have just the right tale for you, feisty picky whiny one."

Pansy fails to mask an amused snort.

Blaise laughs loudly.

"Are all vampires hilarious like you?" Blaise asks,

Wiping his watering eyes brimming with mirth.

"I am a portrait, not a vampire," she says, winking.

Even Draco can't suppress a smile.

"Fine, tell us what you have there," he says.

"Your blood lacks the bouquet of the virgin,

Wanting in fragrance of the innocent.

I see you are a Bound omega.

We night-kin too have a bond of our own.

It exists for those Turned against their will--

Harbouring a distaste for bloodlust and immortality,

Vampires that wish to maintain their humanity--

A pariah of sorts, those are.

After all, one would never give up eternal youth, would she?

Of course, a shame for those Turned in their old age.

Everlasting wrinkles...? Great Nosferatu!

But I could never understand

Why others would choose mortality--

To drink only from a single human,

To perish when their bloodfont dies.

A terrible waste of opportunity, may I say."

_And I don't see what's so great about eternal life,_

_I'd prefer a clean end any day, _Draco thinks,

But doesn't say it.

Not that he's suicidal--

But any mention of life and death

Frazzles Pansy's nerves

Ever since St. Mungo's accident.

_Accident_, Pansy calls it,

As if he wasn't the one

Who pointed a wand to his own throat,

Willingly.

"Thanks, I guess," Draco says.

The portrait nods, and closes her eyes back slowly,

Falling into what seems to be a light nap.

He turns to Pansy to ask for a kitchen tour.

Pansy seems overwhelmed by the story, however.

"Pansy, are you alright?" Draco asks.

_Oi Parkinson, _Blaise follows suit.

Pansy seems ecstatic,

A huge smirk marring her lips.

All his years, Draco's never seen Pansy

Smirk like that--

The left corner of her lips

Turned up to the point of baring her teeth,

Disfiguring her rouged lips.

"I'm fine, I'm fine. Just a little... moved.

Imagine, Draco-- eternal youth!

Every witch's dream.

And no need to worry about bloodlust too,

If the portrait's story is true!"

Pansy says, with a mad gleam in her eyes.

"Well. I decided I'll love this castle forever!

Come, darlings, it's time for the Grand Finale of this tour--

To the kitchens!"

The emerald eyes of the silver serpent

On Pansy's raven hair

Sparkles, reflecting the candlelights of the corridor.

==========


	11. Signs

Journal of Draco Malfoy,

Entry xx-xx-2009

Pansy does have elves in this castle. But they're all Romanian; they can't speak English. They squeak unintelligible words, although they're trained enough to notice subtle things and attend suitably. They glare at me for invading the kitchens, scrunching their noses when I touch the pots. But after tasting what they brought, I declared the kitchens are off-limits in the best way I could convey. Apparently their previous vampire mistress left the worst performers behind for good riddance. And how much culinary experience could a vampire's house elf really get? Vampires don't eat food like wizards, I'd say. 

"Worst" is comparative. By comparison. In comparison. Comparatively. So worst becomes best in another comparison. Change the standards a bit, try to.. "improve" the situation, and the meaning of "worst" disappears. Potter got things worse for me after the War when I imagined I couldn't possibly fall lower. So I don't _teach_ the elves. They're not my elves. Also, they're Romanian, so we can't communicate that well. But I let them sneak peeks although I said the kitchens are off-limits. Up to them if they want to learn.

It's not everyday that Pansy asks me to cook something. I thought she hated me cooking the Muggle way, so it's strange to see such sudden change. She even named what she wanted to eat. She wanted tongue. The culinary kind, of course, but that was out of the blue, I think. I understand craving occurs randomly, but _tongue_ was rather specific. And tongue takes time to serve. Since when did she like tongues? Pansy's food preference always runs contrary to her fashion. She's surprisingly forgiving on experimental clothes, but she's always kept her food strictly... ordinary. Turkey and pudding on Christmas, never a full plate. Bread always with jam, low-sugar. Her list of favourite food does not include unusual ingredients or extra seasoning. That's because she doesn't want to pamper her tongue, and somehow it became a habit in her life to the point of altering her tastes. She must have requested tongue out of curiosity.

I don't trust the elves to get me proper ingredients, so I learnt the coordinates of the nearest Muggle city and Apparated there. Pansy complained because I had to ask her to activate the serpent hairpin Portkey. _Just send the elves, _she said. But I made a point, and she relented.

Romanian Muggles speak better English than their elven counterpart, so I didn't have much trouble getting the things I needed. Thank Salazar they had pickled tongue, I didn't want to take the trouble of pickling it myself. And they also have it ready, unlike back home where you have to put in a prior order. The gigantic pinkish-grey tongue doesn't look too appetizing. But that's my job: to make ugly things look presentable. And delectable. Father was an expert of making ugly things look pretty, it's a wonder he didn't choose _this _job over Death Eating. At least this job gets you better stuff to eat. And Potter, too. They'd never know what he's like when he's with me. Gossip corners give them clues time to time, but not the full picture. 

Warming Charm tends to dry the food, and Pansy and Blaise are slow eaters, so I decided to serve the dish cold. I prepared the glaze minus the mustard (although Blaise loves it. Sorry Blaise). The thing with tongue, you have to boil it, peel it, boil a bit again, and roast, and then cool it again to create that simultaneously chewy and melty texture without actually melting it. I just hope Pansy knew the effort that went into the tongue. Sounds ridiculous. Tongue. Half an hour to go until the tongue cools enough.

==========

He's not receiving my Patronus, Ron says.

The skin between Hermione's eyebrows creases.

What do you mean he's not receiving, she says.

I think he's away? Ron says,

Charming a screwdriver to do its job

On a Muggle toy Hermione got him as a sample.

Well, try again, Hermione says, tapping her foot.

Honestly, Mione, if we weren't married already,

I'd think you're hot for Harry.

"Ron!" Hermione yells. Ron flinches.

"You know it's not like that," she says.

Ron nods.

"Draco's not in London at the moment," Hermione says.

She flicks her wand to slow down the screwdriver,

That has been drilling into the poor Muggle toy.

"Yeah? Ferret's finally left for good, huh?"

"No. He's in Romania with Parkinson and them."

"Romania? Y'know, maybe Charlie would wanna know.

Forget I ever said this, but he thinks Malfoy's sorry arse

Is his one redemption. He had to say this when Mum was around.

You know she's still not over Harry and Ginny."

"Be my guest if you want Harry to duel Charlie."

"Nah, too much trouble," Ron says.

He dispels the magic on the screwdriver.

The Muggle toy falls on the table.

A small label on its hat reads, _Pinocchio._

"I gotta give it to you, Mione, these Muggles

Have some epic imagination.

I think we should work on a hex that stretches a liar's nose."

"Yes. That's what I had in mind for our next doll lineup.

Getting smarter, Ron?"

"Contagious Granger," Ron smirks.

"That's the kind of thing that Slytherins say," Mione smirks.

Ron grimaces.

A shining terrier rushes into the room, evaporating.

"No luck there. You think he's gone to see Malfoy?"

"In all likelihood. He's never managed to stay away from Draco. They're Mates, after all."

"I thought you kept him from seeing Malfoy for a whole year?"

"Depends on how you define _seeing._" Hermione shifts her eyes guiltily.

"Hey, look," Ron covers his wife's hand with his own.

"Look, if someone asks me, I'd still say Hermione Granger

Was the greatest Auror I ever knew."

Hermione smiles. "Tonks?"

"Let's say you're on par," Ron says.

Hermione grins fondly, thinking of pug noses and pink hair.

"Hey, I met our guys over the weekend.

You don't know how much respect they have for you.

They still think you should get back on the team."

"No. Rose-- Auroring isn't a job for a mother."

"Mione, things are getting quiet. People won't ever remember your

Skeeter thing what, in a couple of years."

"Right now I want to concentrate on the Wheezes and Rose."

"Yeah, but think about what I said. They still want you back.

What, they think you should be the next Head Auror

When Robards retires. Dad and George can handle the Wheezes."

"I still wonder if things could have been solved better," whispers Hermione.

"Harry and Ferret had their own history.

No one can help them except themselves.

Look, Mione, it's their life. You can only help so much."

"I know, Ron. I just don't... I just feel I could have stopped Harry

If I had known... If I had acted...

I watched the Pensieve memory Harry submitted.

Mind torture, rape-- surely no one deserves that.

I just want both of them to stay on course until everyone calms down."

"There was no way you could have known what Harry planned,

And Malfoy was missing back then for how long?

You did what you could.

And Harry did stay away from Malfoy for a year, at least.

He won't burst like a ripe Bubotuber just because the ferret's

Gone to soak his arse in Romanian vacation.

And we don't even know if he's really tailed Malfoy, too.

I mean, come on, Mione. Even Harry has better things to do than

Apparating into Parkinson's dining room and crashing Slytherin parties."

Hermione's worried eyes don't relax.

"I think Exploding Snap is a better comparison.

And that's why I'm worried, Ron.

Harry has a tendency to explode spontaneously."

==========


	12. Out of Place

He was called Vladislav IX since he became the lord of this castle.

That is to say,

He was called Vladislav IX since he came into existence.

That is to say,

He was called Vladislav IX since the lady of the castle

Commissioned the portrait

In memory of her late husband,

Who disintegrated into a pile of ash

Due to sunlight exposure.

A stroke of enchanted paint brush,

A swish of wand,

A spray of magical pigment,

And he came into being,

As the painted echo of Vladislav IX,

Who disintegrated into a pile of ash

Courtesy of his clueless human maid

Who never knew her dear master

Was a night-kin.

Time passed,

And vampires who waltzed in his hall,

Wearing dresses and cravats and silks

Wore strange and foreign clothes,

Something they would call _Tea-Shirt _

Or hideous blue breeches they would call

_Jeens_.

Hideous names for hideous garments.

And they left the secluded castle,

To mingle with humans and wizards

Whom they no longer saw as dainty little morsels

But instead, as _companions_ and _friends_.

Friends!

"Humans have entire buildings full of blood satchels,"

A denizen once explained,

"There's no need for us to feed like mosquitoes.

It's easier for us to live with humans,

Cast an Allure or two,

And get some of those blood bags once a week.

Goodbye, Vladislav, I hope your canvas stays out of dust."

Can a hunter befriend his prey?

Can a tiger befriend a deer?

Can an acromantula befriend a human?

One by one, they left,

Until the castle itself was sold

Into the property of one Pansy Parkinson,

A foreign witch who doesn't know

The first thing about vampires.

Thus here in the Grand Dining Hall

Of the noble Vampire Lords

Does Vladislav, grimacing,

Watch three humans

Dining at three-hundred-year-old table

As if they owned the place.

Loathe as he is to admit it,

The lady of the castle is now

That pug-nosed witch, Pansy Parkinson.

"Draco, darling, this is absolutely marvelous,"

The witch says, moaning in a manner not entirely unlike

The moan of a human virgin

When a vampire's fangs first pierce

Her pale, unsullied neck.

Only, Vladislav is confused.

The lady of the castle should, by contract,

Command a magic

That binds the entire castle.

Vladislav senses a power certainly not less powerful

Than a binding contract,

Yet... different, somehow,

Out of place,

Something that should not be,

As if the witch did not own this castle by right.

"Pansy's right, this is better than

What they serve at Upper Alley,"

A brown-skinned man says.

The three exhibit somewhat foreign table manners,

But Vladislav notices these people are this age's aristocracy.

"Would you stop stabbing your food, Pans?"

The brown-skinned man hisses,

Raising his eyebrows.

"What? What did I do?"

Pansy Parkinson says,

Stabbing a piece of beef tongue with her fork.

"Feeling out of sorts?" The blond one says,

Balancing a piece of tongue on the back of his fork

Before bringing it to his mouth.

"Well, boys, I'm on my -girl- time, and it's cramping like Cruciatus."

The brown man immediately adopts an apologetic look.

The witch cuts another piece of the meat

And tries to put it on her fork as the blond man did,

But her shaking fork drops the meat.

"Don't mind me," she says, draining a glass of wine.

"At least you can hold a wineglass,"

The blond one says. "Do we have potions here?"

"Yes, I brought some vials. I'll take one in bed."

"Why not now?"

"It doesn't last through the night if I take it earlier."

"I was thinking of getting some Muggle medicine.

They have these, uh, pills for that.

But you can't take them with nightcap."

Pansy Parkinson's eyes bulge in shock.

"What? Absolutely not, Draco, don't even think about it!

Muggles and no nightcap?"

The blond guest called Draco grins at her reaction.

Then, his eyes shift to Vladislav's direction.

"What's up with that portrait, though. He keeps glaring at you.

I think he's trying to say something."

Pansy Parkinson directs an exasperated look at Vladislav.

She flicks her wrist in a cutting motion,

And even in its artificial state of existence,

The likeness of Vladislav IX on canvas

Feels the oppressive might of a magic

He has not experienced for centuries--

Powerful enough to negate the Everlasting Animatus Charm

Cast on his canvas.

As the last vestiges of the Animatus Charm leaves him,

Diminishing him into nothing more than an inanimate,

Dead portrait,

Vladislav IX thinks he should deny what the new

Lady-- _no, by the Moon and Night,_ _not a lady!-- _of the castle says:

"Perks of being the boss here:

Shut down a portrait before it starts ranting.

That one's been giving me a headache since I bought the place.

_ **It's okay, Draco, there's no one to disturb** _

_**Our perfect dinner now.**_"

==========

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How can an ancient Romanian portrait understand and think in English?


	13. Bloodfont, Part I

Magical Transylvania

Vladislav Castle

Dining Hall, 20:24

Observing his friends' empty plates, Draco casually waves his wand, clearing the dining table. Another wave, and a window opens for a change of air.

"You've gotten really good at household charms," says Blaise, noting the quick succession of wordless spells emitted by the tip of Draco's wand. After the heavy smell of food in the room subsides, a floral fragrance begins to fill the room thanks to Draco's spell.

"Yes, but I have to take care not to cast anything when my Muggle roomie's around."

"You told me last time over the mirror. Steve, was it? You said he's clueless how you could clean up the entire flat in less than an hour."

"Which is why he keeps asking me to clean up, the slob. But he's a good kid, he never shirks his turn."

Pansy lights a cigarette on a holder. The thin, wavering trail of the smoke follows the flow of air out towards the open window. She watches her two friends' exchange under half-closed, dark eyelids heavy with makeup.

"You two are so _domestic_," Pansy says, exhaling an impressive puff of smoke. Enchanted lipstick saves her the effort of reapplying rouge on her lips after dinner.

"Jealous?" Draco winks at Pansy. To his surprise, Pansy doesn't roll her eyes or deny it flat out.

"It's unfashionable to admit such things, but I suppose I am, to a degree. A girl can get lonely sometimes. Especially when she has to watch Zabini hog her Draco all to himself."

"Aww. Come here, Pans," says Blaise.

"Not at the moment. Still cramping."

Draco reaches out a hand to receive the cigarette holder from her.

"Surrender my wand? A Pureblood never parts from her wand." Pansy pouts, but gives it to Draco anyway. 

"Why don't you get a custom-made holder like Flora Carrow. This can't be all that convenient," Draco says, inhaling deeply.

"Fashion thing, darling. Mr Malfoy used to have that wand cane, didn't he?"

"Canes are pretty common, you know. I don't know, wands touch all kinds of things, and to touch your lips on it..."

"Shush, I always keep my wand sanitized twenty-four seven," Pansy hisses, lighting another cigarette between her lips. A stray wisp of smoke makes its way to Pansy's eyes, and she blinks rapidly from the hot sting. The careless gesture amazes her friends, because Pansy never is clumsy when it comes to smoking. "Ugh, the smoke got in, something's really wrong with me today."

"I'm getting a drink," Blaise says, heading to the bar. "You want one?"

"No, stay there, Blaise. I'll do it. I've made enough embarrassing display for one evening, allow me," Pansy kills her cigarette on the ashtray she conjured earlier. "Brandy?"

Blaise throws her a puzzled look. "I thought you knew I prefer whisky?"

Draco watches silently.

Pansy blinks. "Thought you might want a change. And sorry, I don't have whisky here."

Blaise shrugs. "Make it brandy then, can't hurt for a night."

==========

Guest Wing, 00:01

An inhuman scream tears the night apart.

The noise is loud enough to echo through the hallways.

With its ominous gargoyle sculptures,

Staring gloomily into nothingness,

Reverberate the echoing scream,

The already ghastly castle evolves into a horrific one.

Draco wakes from his sleep.

Something familiar in the scream

Makes the hair on the back of his neck

Stand stiff.

Goosebumps form on his skin.

The shriek is as grating as a madwoman's nail on floor,

But its timbre suggests a man.

A man, tortured.

Draco is familiar with many shades of screams.

The small unfinished scream of surprise

Before a victim is hit by the Killing Curse.

The loud unending scream of agony

As a victim's limbs twist and turn under Cruciatus.

The cackling shrieking alternate scream

Of an Azkaban inmate who cast the Unforgivables.

_Screams birthing screams_

Torturer and tortured scream alike.

Draco is familiar with many shades of screams.

The shrill long scream of terror

When they see the Skull and Serpent glowing in the sky.

The low guttural scream of horror

When the Dark Lord's masked minions

Descend on them.

Screams of pleasure, too.

Fear and pleasure and Potter and Blaise.

Blaise.

Something familiar in the scream

Makes the hair on the back of his neck

Stand stiff.

It's Blaise, screaming.

He's been hearing Blaise's voice since they were babes.

There's no mistake,

The low timbre of that shrill scream,

Paradoxical,

Monstrous,

So loud that it's impossible for human throat

To produce that noise--

It's Blaise, screaming.

With trembling fingers Draco traces the wall

For the switch.

A second later,

He realises this is a Magical home.

He grabs the wand on the drawer and lights the room.

The room is sufficiently heated,

But he feels an inexplicable chill creeping up his spine.

Cold sweat forms on his forehead and nose.

He hurries along the corridor of the guest wing

To reach Blaise's room.

A dozen thoughts form in his head.

Something, _no, things-- _were weird with Pansy.

The feral smirk that betrayed her pouty lips.

The fat-rich tongue cuisine that she asked.

The way she stabbed her food,

Unable to balance small pieces on the back of the fork.

Table manner that all Purebloods display as second nature.

Offering brandy to Blaise after dinner.

Things were weird with Pansy.

Things that can very easily be passed

As momentary whims.

Things that don't bear specific significance

Separate.

But -- _things_. Plural.

Things that become so meaningful,

Things that translate one clue to the other,

As a whole.

Pansy did not stab her food out of irritation.

It's because she didn't know the Pureblood dining manner.

Dots begin to connect to form a line.

A line that Draco fervently wishes were not as straight

As it seems to be.

Blaise's screams don't end.

They get louder as Draco approaches his room.

The line in his thoughts lead to a single figure.

_No, no. It can't be right._

_Please don't let it be true..._

_Why didn't I_ _notice..._

Draco pays little attention to control

As he whips his wand into the air.

Blaise's door bursts open,

A crack already forming on the thick black wood.

Half-panicking himself,

He spots Blaise thrashing on the floor,

Covered in the grime of his own vomit.

The foul stench of stomach acid fills the air,

But Draco isn't aware.

==========

Blaise's Room, 00:07

"Blaise!"

Draco rushes to his side.

"Blaise, try to keep calm, I'm here, I'm here."

The convulsion doesn't stop,

But the thrashing abates a bit.

Draco prods open Blaise's mouth,

Checking his airway.

There's nothing there,

But Blaise continues wheezing and gagging.

He manages to gasp, "hurts,"

Before starting to scream again.

Draco watches in horror

As something moves under Blaise's skin.

He tears open Blaise's shirt to find

More blobs of flesh distending and sinking back.

He summons the house-elves,

But none answer.

Blaise's grip on his hand is so, so tight it hurts like doxy sting,

But Draco doesn't try to free his hand.

There's nothing he can do.

He tries to think of Potions that could do this,

Nothing comes to his mind.

He thinks of Pansy,

Considers calling her,

But she's not here for all the screams.

He casts several elementary Healing spells,

But nothing works.

All colour drains from Blaise's face,

And his breathing shallows.

His arms and legs are sagging.

Draco realises it's done.

Blaise is dying.

The line in his mind point to one person.

Footsteps.

Click, clack.

Stiletto.

Pansy.

Draco whips his head back.

There's no one.

Footsteps again.

From his back.

To his side.

To the front.

Ends near the far corner of the room.

The one person sheds a translucent cloak.

The one person wears a sapphire blue dress, studded with onyx.

Pansy emerges, sporting the feral smirk.

"You're not Pansy," Draco whispers.

"Honestly, living in the Muggle World dulled you," Not-Pansy says.

"Who are you," Draco answers, his heart beating faster

As he feels Blaise's pulse dying from his wrist.

Draco can't stop swallowing his cries.

"Whoever you are, help," he says between tears.

"Even if... even if you're Potter. Help."

As if on cue, Pansy's curvy figure shifts

Into a tall mountain of muscle that is Potter.

It's comical,

Potter wearing makeup and a thin dress.

The hems stretch and tear, unable to accommodate

Potter's frame.

Like drag queens on Muggle Parades.

In another time and place, Draco would have laughed mirthfully,

But now, a defeated laugh of disbelief escapes Draco's mouth.

His teary eyes are hard on the edges,

Glaring at Potter in boundless anger.

He nestles Blaise's body closer.

"Help," he repeats.

Potter laughs.

He undresses roughly, transfiguring everything into

Simple tee and shorts to wear back.

"Help? I already did," he says.

Draco fires the first spell that comes to his mind.

Potter deflects the Blasting Curse.

He tuts, giving a sharp flick of the wrist.

Draco loses his wand as easily as Potter gave it to him in the past.

This time, Potter snaps Draco's hawthorn wand.

"No need for suicide shows this time," he says.

"Whatever you did to Blaise, undo it," Draco answers.

He's bolstered by the courage that he doesn't miss the wand.

Because it's all the same before Potter.

"Can't. Not even Harry Potter can cheat death," Potter says in sing-song tune.

He seems cheerful. His smile doesn't falter.

"Please," Draco tries.

"Oh, baby, don't do that. I do so hate it when you beg like that.

Lovers aren't supposed to beg each other. Although...

You did make me beg before you left."

"Potter, I'm sorry. I'll do whatever you want.

Help. Look, Blaise's dying, please..."

"Shut up," Potter whispers.

Contrary to the angry tone,

Potter's expression is a look of pure composure.

Draco shuts up.

"I don't trust you," Potter says.

"I did before, but I don't anymore.

I believed you'd come around,

Just a bit more time,

A little more space,

No, nothing, fuck you, Malfoy.

And you're leading me on like a leashed dog.

You don't give a damn about our Bond.

So I took the matter to my hands.

This? Zabini and all?

I told you not to go.

I begged you.

Fuck, Draco, and you told me to _get a job_?

So I did my job."

Draco's breath hitches, seeing Blaise is motionless.

No pulse, no breaths, no heartbeat.

Blaise is dead.

_Hurts_ was his last word.

Potter killed him,

And Blaise died in torture.

"You killed him," is all he can manage.

An intense sorrow washes over Draco that even his tears stop.

Somewhere in the back of his mind he wonders

What happened to Pansy, his mind tells him to ask Potter,

But his tongue doesn't move;

The impact of Blaise's death stops the world around him.

_"You killed him," is all Draco can manage **\-- **_ **Fanart by Santino @AO3**

Harry's gut wrenches.

He feels sick.

The Bond rings in punishment for bringing despair to his Mate.

He catches himself before he could launch himself to Draco,

Telling all kinds of comforting words.

He wants Draco to suffer.

Right now he hates Draco as much as he loves him.

But he can't stop himself completely.

So he lets out something to ease Draco's sorrow.

"He's not _dead_."

==========


	14. Bloodfont, Part II

Those three words feel like open air

After nearly drowning.

"He's not dead," Harry says it again.

Part of his heart clenches hurting,

Seeing that Draco's eyes twinkle hopefully for Zabini.

Still he can't get enough of that lively expression.

The part that wishes for Draco's suffering quiets.

"He's not dead, it's okay," he says again.

The victor in this room,

Yet Harry resents the tender way

Draco's embracing Zabini.

He feels like the loser.

"Then why isn't he--?"

Draco doesn't add the _breathing_.

"Blaise? Blaise, come on," he says.

He shakes Blaise's body a bit.

He's comforted that Blaise is still warm.

How long until the warmth leaves, he wonders.

"Well, he's dead, I guess," Potter says.

If he could, Draco's eyes would have shot

Green rays of death to Potter.

"Why would you do this," he asks.

The stifled cry bursts out

From Potter's little game.

"How can you be so cruel," he says.

"You're supposed to be the good guy, aren't you,"

He sounds pathetic to himself.

Like a little Hufflepuff.

"He's dead, he can't die," Potter says.

He sounds serious.

Draco hates Potter for that.

"I hate you," Draco hisses.

"I hope you die a miserable death.

I wish Father had killed you when he had the chance.

It's a pity the Dark Lord had to toy with you in that graveyard after Triwizard.

He should have killed you right away as he did with your Mudblood mother.

Your father was a Blood Traitor who sired the greatest mistake on Earth

By fucking Lily Evans the Mudblood.

Your whole existence is a big joke.

I feel dirty knowing your tainted parts entered me so many times.

You're a disgusting, glorified good-for-nothing.

You didn't even kill the Dark Lord.

You earned everything you have for free.

I wish you'd pay the price some day.

I hate you."

Every word feels like a whiplash.

Harry tries to think of a smart retort,

But his brains stop working

The moment he hears about paying the price.

So he strikes a backhand on Draco's cheek.

The sheer physical difference throws Draco backwards a little.

He falls sideways, letting go of Blaise's body.

Draco draws a shocked breath--

The fact that he hurt Potter

Stings more than the slap he's received.

"Where's Pansy," Draco says, covering his quickly swelling cheek.

"Did you kill her too?"

"How many times do I have to tell you, Zabini's not _dead_,"

Potter grabs Draco by the collar

And drags him to the bed.

Draco pinches and punches and kicks,

But Potter takes every hit in silence.

Draco scrapes more than a little bit of skin

With his nails. A white soft mass is stuck under his nails.

There's a thin scratch on Potter's face.

Red dots begin to ooze out.

"Parkinson's safe too," Potter says.

His nose twitches when he brushes the scratch Draco made.

"Starving a bit, maybe, and bored.

But gonna do wonders for her fat arse.

Merlin, I've always wanted to pay her back

After that sorry stunt she's pulled

About getting me to Voldemort in the Great Hall.

But she's your friend, I wouldn't harm her.

How do you even consider that bitch a friend?

I get it, I get it.

It's all in the family, you Purebloods.

You were meant to be perfect, darling,

You were meant to be mine.

But it's all in the blood.

Malfoy blood damaged you.

It's okay. It's nothing time won't cure.

Draco, baby, it's been so long since we had sex.

Let me fuck you tonight.

Brilliant place Parkinson's got here.

You always made me wait Zabini finish fucking you, didn't you,

Now it's his turn.

Ugh, that smell's a bit turn-off, but whatever.

We don't want to keep Zabini waiting when he wakes up."

It's different this time.

Potter's always cared about his pleasure

Even in that underwater house.

It's different now--

The way Potter's tearing his clothes off with magic.

It's not an act of confession or love.

It's violence.

There's no worship in Potter's eyes,

Only a mad rage for domination.

The Bond's supposed to prime him wet for his Alpha,

But the shock's robbing every possibility of pleasure from him.

He's dry.

Draco grits his teeth when he feels a huge glob of spit

Falling on his tailbone, trickling down the crack of his arse.

He shakes his head,

Knowing there's no way he can talk Potter out of this.

He shakes trembling,

Waiting for the pain that's about to burn down there.

Potter _nngh_-s in pain too

As he enters him almost dry,

Only a glob of spit for lube.

He's not even undressed like he always is.

Draco's moan of pain turns into a scream

When Potter withdraws with a single pull.

A popping sound accompanies tearing flesh.

Potter sits on the bed,

And impales Draco with his cock again.

More pops.

More wounds.

More blood.

More screams.

==========

He makes sure that it's painful.

Halfway in the act,

He considers casting _Episkey_ and _Lubrico._

The jump and strain along Draco's spine

Suggests the pain he's enduring.

But he abandons the idea.

Because there is no other way

He can deliver his anger and sorrow

Straighter than this.

Harry makes sure it's painful,

Because he doesn't want Draco to feel

The hot wet stain on his back

Where Harry's buried his face.

Yeah. Malfoy doesn't need to see him cry.

The ringing of the Bond intensifies at an alarming rate,

And the headache threatens to soften his prick,

So Harry moves faster,

For the tiniest inch of pleasure that can maintain his erection.

_Accio _Serpent Comb,

Harry barks between Draco's screams.

The emerald-eyed silver serpent

Zooms into his hand.

When he touches it,

The ringing of the Bond falters.

The serpent blocks the Bond's effects.

It gets better,

Because he can't feel

Draco's pain and fear anymore.

Draco wouldn't feel the Bond too with this.

It's better this way right now.

We're carving something out of us to keep.

A few more rough thrusts and Harry comes.

Draco whimpers as the liquid seeps into

The torn openings around his rim.

Blood and semen mix messily,

Trickling down Draco's thighs.

Harry's cock bulges at the base,

The knot plugging Draco.

"Pull out! Pull out!" Draco shouts in panic

As the pain grows unbearable,

The torn parts tearing even wider.

But Harry stays.

He doesn't want to cause real injury.

Draco lets out a gut-wrenching shudder.

Harry locks his arm around Draco.

A hundred pleas for forgiveness are

On their ways to his tongue from his throat,

But he swallows deeply to erase them.

Still knotted, Draco twists his arm uncomfortably

To reach Harry.

He pulls Harry's hair,

Hits whatever parts he could get his hands on.

Harry lets him do it.

Draco tries to hurt Potter,

And he doesn't realise he can do it

Without the Bond's ringing,

But his exhausted body doesn't lend its strength

Into the blows.

Draco can't hold on to the constant.

The constant of hurting Potter.

So he holds onto another to keep his wits.

Or he would go break down.

He would really lose for good to Potter.

He would lose everything.

So he'll fight back.

"Tell me what you did to Blaise.

Tell me where Pansy is," he says hoarsely.

"A trick I learned from your Death Eater daddy's friend,

Barty Crouch Junior.

Parkinson's in a trunk in the master bedroom here.

I poured nutrition potions down her throat

When it was necessary.

Needed her hair for Polyjuice.

I kept her under Imperius since that day.

I Apparated here right after you left Grimmauld."

Draco laughs.

It's funny they can have civil conversation

Only when Potter rapes him.

It's funny Potter's used a Death Eater's strategy

When he's praised as the Vanquisher of Voldemort.

"Cast something for me, I'm about to faint," he says, laughing still.

Potter casts _Ennervate, Episkey, Lubrico, _and _Reparifors_

One after the other.

Draco shudders again in disgust when he feels

Potter resting his head on his back.

And his back is wet.

"Why would you rape me if you had to blubber like an imbecile,"

He says, laughing again.

Potter doesn't answer.

The pain's gone like it was a nightmare,

But a big cold hole is left gaping in Draco's heart.

"What did you do to Blaise. Say it."

"I spiked his brandy with Potion of the Bloodfont,"

Potter says.

There is neither hesitation nor guilt in his voice.

Draco is amazed at the brazen tone,

Although he has no idea what the potion is.

"You shameless son of a bitch,

You and your potions.

You slipped Amortentia on me before.

And you poisoned Blaise like a coward!

What do they say, poison is a woman's weapon?

How low are you going to fall, Potter?

Aren't supposed to be the hero?

At this rate you'll be the Death Eater."

"It's not poison, it's only meant to kill," Potter says.

Draco is rendered speechless,

But recovers quickly.

"It's called poison _because_ it kills!" He roars.

His eyes water again looking at Blaise's crumpled form.

"You killed him! You killed him!"

Potter covers Draco's mouth with his huge hand.

Draco bites down hard on Potter's palm.

Potter winces in pain and Draco's glad for it.

Potter whispers,

"Darling, be quiet. _Silencio_."

Draco can't make any sound other than grunts and whimpers.

So he makes his hatred known by gnawing on Potter's palm.

He tastes blood.

Potter doesn't pull his hand back.

Draco bites and _chews _with the sole purpose of hurting Potter.

Potter doesn't pull his hand back.

"Potion of the Bloodfont--

Doesn't the name sound familiar?" Potter says.

Bloodfont.

Potion of the Bloodfont.

_ But I could never understand_

_ Why others would choose mortality--_

_ To drink only from a single human,_

_ To perish when their bloodfont dies._

Draco remembers.

The portrait's tale.

A vampire who keeps a single blood source.

A terrible realisation dawns on Draco.

His eyes widen.

He stops biting.

He turns a bit,

Staring at Potter from the corner of his eyes.

Potter withdraws his hand.

His palm is mangled, bite marks and blood.

"Ouch," Potter says, grimacing.

"I got the idea when we heard the portrait's tale.

Godric's beard, it was a like a solution to all our problems!

Like Gryffindor's Sword!

I had Parkinson visit the portrait every night

To get the secret recipe.

Apparently the potion has another use!

It's the only way other than the Bite

To turn a human into a vampire.

The secret's guarded so closely by the night-kin,

The portrait wanted nearly a gallon of magically potent blood

In return for the secret.

Even I would've died with that amount of blood lost.

Good thing Parkinson had Blood Replenishing Potion here, the old cow.

Yeah. Ash of a Vampire, burnt by sundawn.

Wasn't hard to get here in Transylvania,

With vampire sepulchres everywhere.

Thread of a Dementor's Cape, harvested at midnight.

That one put me in a pinch,

Since Britain expelled Dementors from Azkaban.

But turns out, Romanian Ministry still uses Dementors!

Lucky me, huh?

And finally, Blood of the Bloodfont,

Blood of the one and only who will feed the vampire

For life. That's right! A Bond!

You said we share nothing except a Bond.

You said people like me overestimate a Bond.

You said a Bond means nothing.

No, Draco.

I was determined to show you that's not true.

There are magicks so powerful they can change your destiny.

My mother used Sacrificial Protection charm for me.

Dumbledore cast the Blood Protection charm for me.

Voldemort sealed his fate by dividing his soul into Horcruxes.

You didn't cherish what we share--

You lusted after Zabini like a street tramp--

Yeah. So I decided I'll accept his place.

His place in your life, if it means I can keep you.

His place in _our _lives now I guess, huh?

Guess whose blood I used?"

Draco can do nothing but to watch,

Watch in horror as Blaise's body stirs.

Blaise's brown complexion appears paler than usual.

In this dimly-lit room, Blaise's blood-red pupils flash like fire.

He hacks and coughs.

His fingers contort, the nails growing into claws and retreating again.

A gloomy, vibrating trill hums behind Blaise voice,

A sound so enchanting that Draco's almost lulled to sleep.

In that beautiful voice, Blaise calls out,

**"Potter,"**

And Potter extends his mangled, bloody hand, beckoning.

Draco watches in horror.

Blaise kneels in front of them, reverently,

And licks Potter's palm,

Wearing an expression of pure ecstasy

As if he's tasting a vintage not of this world.

**"See? He can't die because he's already dead,"**

**Potter says. **

==========


	15. Bondage

Blaise sinks his fangs into Potter's wrist.

He slurps and gulps messily.

Stray droplets of blood stain red spots on the white sheet.

Blaise moans like he's about to climax.

Potter's mouth is set, but Draco can hear the ragged breaths.

Potter's cock, still inside him, swells rock hard.

"Careful, you don't wanna drink me dry," Potter says.

Draco can feel Potter's huge cock pulsing inside him.

Blaise unclasps Potter's arm from his mouth,

Looking like that is the last thing he wants to do.

Blaise's red eyes then move to Draco.

Their eyes meet.

The haze of ecstasy fades from Blaise's eyes.

Draco sees horror creeping into Blaise's expression

In slow motion.

"Draco, I... what--"

Draco feels Blaise's gaze trailing down his body,

Resting on the gleaming wet part where he's still connected with Potter.

Blaise eyes narrow in anger.

He tries to pull Draco into his arms,

But lets him go as if he's touched fire

When Draco emits a painful scream.

Potter laughs.

"Zabini, I knotted him."

Sharp claws extend from Blaise's fingers,

But he doesn't strike Potter.

He moves backwards, standing stupidly in the middle of the room,

Watching them.

Watching Potter knotting him.

Shame assaults Draco like never before.

Potter chuckles.

Potter whispers a _Lubrico_ and starts pumping Draco's flaccid cock.

"No," Draco says, pushing back against Potter.

He tries to think of the deathly spectacle that's shocked him.

It works.

He doesn't get hard.

Potter tries some more but gives up when his own erection shrinks.

Draco pulls away.

He trembles in disgust as he feels Potter's cock leaving him

With a wet squelch.

Potter doesn't stop him.

Draco tries walking straight to no avail. He wobbles.

Blaise covers the distance in a couple of steps,

Balancing him.

Blaise's arms are surprisingly cold.

There's no body warmth that once made Draco sigh contentedly.

I'm sorry, Draco says.

I'm sorry I didn't realise sooner.

I'm sorry I dragged you into this.

"What? No, no, Draco, no, it's not your fault," Blaise says.

Blaise glares at Potter as he says _fault_.

Potter's casting _Evanesco_ to clean the vestiges of sex.

He hops into his damned shorts.

"You guys done?" he says casually.

Draco decides he misses his snapped wand.

He wants to curse Potter into next century.

"Where's Pansy," Blaise says.

He supports Draco with an arm,

Drawing his wand out with another.

He trains the wand at Potter.

Potter smiles condescendingly.

"Draco knows.

By the way, enough with the wand and claws, Zabini.

I'm your Bloodfont.

You can't feed if I die, you know.

And if I die, Draco dies.

If Draco dies, I die, and you... well.

You're technically dead already,

What's the right word?

You'll shrivel up.

I'd rather think I deserve some thanks.

You've always wanted to Bond with Draco, yeah?

And my blood tastes better than sex, doesn't it?"

Unable to contain his anger any longer,

Blaise growls in rage and

Slashes the air with his wand hand.

Draco sees the Sectumsempra flying at Potter.

He expects Potter to deflect it like always.

He doesn't.

Potter lowers his hand,

Opening his arms.

A full frontal hit.

There's a mad Cheshire grin on Potter's face.

The spell slashes through Potter's chest and abdomen.

The white of Potter's teeth turns red when blood

Trickles out of his mouth.

Potter's still grinning.

He falls onto the bed.

The white sheet turns red with Potter's blood.

Potter coughs, spurting blood with each chest movement.

And Draco realises it's not coughing.

Potter's chuckling.

_Thank Salazar he's not dead he's not dead there's still time_

Draco's seen Potter fall many times.

Hell, he _made_ Potter fall more than he could count.

The nasty hexes,

Punches and kicks,

Stepping on his nose.

During the War,

He's seen Potter dodging lethal curses at hair's breadth.

Draco's heart would thunder in fear every time.

He's seen Potter falling lifelessly from the Dark Lord's Killing Curse.

But he's never seen this.

Potter falling, life about to leave him,

Laughing in death throes.

He's seen Potter's shocked face

When he hit Draco with Sectumsempra.

Is this how he felt?

No, he wouldn't have.

Potter wouldn't have felt like

Experiencing Mother's death all over again.

_Like hell I'll allow it_

Draco snatches Blaise's wand.

He rushes at Potter.

His mouth is already chanting _Vulnera Sanentur_

Before he realises it.

Potter tries to speak, but he can't.

More blood erupts from the gash in his chest

As he tries to say something.

"Don't speak. Don't move. Don't speak, you're fine, I got you."

It takes too long to close the gash.

Draco thinks he can see the slimy pink insides of Potter's body.

"Blaise!" He yells.

"Blaise! I can't do the spell perfectly with your wand. Help me out!"

Blaise must have expected Potter to deflect the spell, too.

He looks thunderstruck.

But he takes the wand the next moment,

And sings the _Vulnera Sanentur_.

Potter's flesh starts to knit slowly.

He tries to rise, and the gash widens.

"Don't move! Lie still, Harry, please."

Potter's brow twitches.

Perhaps because he's called him Harry.

"Blaise, keep the spell going, I'm gonna fetch that Blood Replenishing Potion."

Blaise's hand stays Draco.

Draco throws him a puzzled look.

Draco understands when Blaise says,

"_Accio _Blood Replenishing Potion."

Potter's losing his blood at an alarming rate.

It's faster than the speed his wounds are mending.

Draco Conjures a spoon.

It's bent because he's using Blaise's wand.

He Charms the bottle to pour small amounts on the spoon,

And feeds the liquid to Potter,

A few drops at a time.

The frantic, hurried movement relaxes when

_Vulnera Sanentur_ closes the gash completely.

It's an emergency measure.

It'd take a Magical Hospital to mend the damaged nerves and organs completely.

Draco's amazed Potter's managed to remain conscious

All through the ordeal.

It would have sent others into immediate unconsciousness.

"Don't speak yet. Don't move," Draco repeats.

He brushes Potter's hair.

He feels Potter's wrist and neck, searching for the strength of the pulse.

He brings the spoon to Potter's mouth with a tenderness

That can't be more gentler.

The tenderness stings Blaise's mind.

Blaise thinks Potter looks like he's earned the world.

The lunatic Half-Blood's looking at Draco with those besotted eyes.

Did he take the Sectumsempra for that momentary pampering?

And it dawns on him.

He almost killed Draco when he Cursed Potter.

He couldn't care less about the fact he's almost killed his Bloodfont.

Perhaps, the reality hasn't truly come across for him.

"Draco, baby, are you alright," he asks.

"I'm fine," Draco says. "We've managed somehow."

"Let me do that," Blaise says, taking the spoon from Draco.

It's better he feed Potter

Than let the lunatic fuck with Draco's feelings like this.

Potter looks at Blaise defiantly.

Blaise looks downwards at Potter with all the disgust he could muster.

But the delectable smell rising

From the blood-stained sheet

Wipes all disgust.

The fragrance of Potter's blood makes him hard.

_Not as hard as Draco's heat_, he tries.

Blaise shifts a bit to hide his pelvis.

It'd be weird to let Draco see him tenting his trousers.

==========


	16. Found

Draco decides to stay with Potter to monitor his condition. He asks Blaise to check on Pansy. Blaise seems hesitant leaving him with an unstable Potter, but relents after a second request. He leaves for the master bedroom, declaring threats in grisly detail should Potter try something with Draco while he's away.

Too weak to respond, Harry turns his head closer to Draco's lap. Draco pushes him away gently, guiding Harry's head to a pillow.

"_Scourgify_ won't take that bloodstain out of the sheets," he says. "The last thing I need is Romanian Aurors hunting Blaise down for feasting on a British national hero. Stay in this room until you recover. I'll have food and clean sheets brought here."

_And you? Don't leave, stay a while. It hurts everywhere._

Harry's voice echoes in Draco's head.

"How dare you, Potter. How dare you invade my mind again after what you've done here in this castle. The only reason I'm not hexing you is because Blaise's done enough already."

_I can't speak, I'm in pain. Hold me a little more._

"Don't toy with me. You did it to yourself, you manipulating bastard. You took me without consent, again. You poisoned and Turned Blaise into a vampire. And Pansy-- you Imperiused her! Potter, I told you it was only going to be a month. A month! And you couldn't stand a _day _? You're going to face the consequences this time."

Harry's tone turns from pleading to menacing.

_Consequences? Zabini's a Dark Being now. You sure you want to make this public? They're gonna remove him from the Sacred List, you know. What will happen to Zabini Finances, I wonder? Market crash? Mrs Zabini's gonna have to look for a new husband to leech, eh? Obviously you haven't learned enough from Skeeter. They're gonna say it's you, love. Whodunit-- Draco Malfoy! Poor Harry Potter, framed by a Death Eater!_

Draco's face reddens in shame and frustration.

"So what do you propose, you want everyone to shake hands, let bygones be bygones? Highly unlikely that Blaise's mother will let this pass, Potter. She'll find a way to make you pay. And Pansy, she's as vindictive as a Nundu."

_Ha. You seriously think Parkinson matters at all? You know what, Draco, Ms Pugface is the least of my worries. Mrs Zabini--tell her to bring it on. I'm her son's Bloodfont. One wrong move and I'll sustain Zabini with only a vial of my blood every week until he's reduced to a drooling beast. Actually, I think I'll do it if you start spending too much time with him._

"Potter, you wouldn't--"

_I would. You wanna know what I'd propose? I propose you spend your heat with me. I propose we go back living together, like we did before. I won't ask you to keep Zabini out of the picture. Fine, I'll let him fuck you once in a while, if you beg me real nicely--maybe in bed, I guess? Or you won't even let me look at you, would you. I'll feed him too if you come live with me._

"Let him fuck...? Are you my pimp now?"

_No, I'm your Mate. And you are an Omega who should have lowered your fucking head and just look pretty like every other one. Bloody hell, I should've taken this approach earlier. You don't listen if I ask sweetly. This isn't a joke, baby. I'll let you on your vacation until it ends. Then you move in with me. Or I starve Zabini._

Draco is at a complete loss for words.

Potter doesn't leave his mind.

_Draco, I just want you to know... this is all for you. I'm doing this because I love you. To give us some chance.  
_ _Now, for starters, pet my hair if you want Zabini to have his next breakfast._

==========

Pansy digests everything coolly, which means she is beyond her normal scope of anger. It takes nearly half an hour for her to regain her senses completely.

"So. Potter Imperiused me, Polyjuiced into me, and Turned you into _this _all the while wearing my face?"

"Yeah. And he wore your dress too. The Italian one."

"You in mood for joke? Aren't you even angry? The bastard's gonna pay. I'll make him pay!" Pansy shrieks at Blaise.

"I _am_ angry!" Blaise's voice rises a notch higher, but the gloomy, eerie echo still remains. Pansy feels the odd chill from the magical timbre of Blaise's voice. "I am so fucking angry I could tear Potter apart! But I bloody can't! You know what's going to happen if Potter's dead! But I know why Draco sent me here, Pans. He knows I can't function with Potter's blood messing up my senses. I'm trying to calm the fuck down." Blaise doesn't tell Pansy he suspects Potter's assaulted Draco again. _I'll ask Draco later, need to tread lightly on this_.

"Wait, wait. Blood? And Draco? You left him with Potter?"

"I... may have acted rashly. I Cursed Potter with Sectumsempra."

"You said blood. So you got Potter?"

"He took it like a lunatic with a death wish. Draco's nursing him now."

Pansy delivers a hook on Blaise's face, but it lacks true force because she lacks strength. "You do know you deserve that, don't you," she says. "Potter could eat dirt for all I care. You almost killed Draco, idiot."

Blaise lowers his eyes in contrition.

"I'm gonna need Pepper-up," Pansy says, covering her bare shoulders with a shawl.

"Don't think we have it here."

"Absinthe, then. Don't tell me we haven't got it here. I stocked up myself."

"On empty stomach?"

"Just get your arse moving, Zabini. And don't forget the jasmine sugar."

Blaise returns very soon. "That must be convenient," Pansy says, "You're basically popping here and there."

Blaise sets a sugar cube on a plate next to the glass. "Convenient as in coming in your pants sucking Potter's blood, yes. You don't have absinthe spoon, so make do."

"Eww," Pansy makes a face. "So I take it you sucked Potter off?"

"I sucked his _blood, _not Potter, lady. You're awfully perky for someone who's just released from Imperius."

"Transfigure the teaspoon. You're not a Muggle, don't be one," Pansy demands.

The spoon levitates and rotates slowly. A full rotation later, the teaspoon becomes an absinthe spoon.

Pansy sets the sugar cube on the spoon. Blaise whispers a tightly controlled _Aguamenti. _Droplets of water fall from the tip of his wand into the glass through the sugar cube.

Pansy crushes the damp sugar cube in the glass. She slurps on the drink. She looks around for her cigarette holder wand, but gives up realising her wand must be with Potter still.

"Stop drinking all the time. Smoking, too," Blaise says.

"Don't remember you having problems with it," Pansy downs another big mouthful. "Ugh, you're right, it's too strong on empty stomach."

"You smell like stale cigarette," Blaise informs her.

"You wouldn't know, you don't even smoke," Pansy replies.

"Fine, you smell like... bad," Blaise covers his nose.

Pansy covers her mouth with both of her hands, and breathes out slowly to check. "No, I don't, well, yes, I missed the chance at personal hygiene thanks to Potter."

"That's not what I'm saying. I smell things way better now. I can smell Potter's blood from here, a bit. You should stop smoking, the smell's seeped into your skin."

"Deal with it," Pansy says, giving Blaise the fingers. "Not something you should say to a victim of an Unforgivable when she's just recovered!"

"My bad," says Blaise. He massages Pansy's sore feet while she sips the absinthe. They don't speak, each of them musing on what's happened.

It's Pansy who breaks the silence.

"So now you're bound to Potter. I thought things couldn't get worse when Draco became Potter's Mate. And now you're Potter's pet, panting for his half-breed blood."

"You're making it sound worse, Pansy. There's no Bond whatsoever between Potter and me. Fuck, that sounds so wrong. Point is, there's no Bond. I only need to get his blood in some way, and that's it."

"Potter wouldn't give you his blood for free, the sly hypocrite. He'll definitely keep you from Draco."

The nagging thought that has been worrying Blaise hits him heavily. "You're right," he says.

"I am always right. And I don't see you dealing with the problem anytime soon. I'll need a talk with Potter."

"Now?"

"If not now, then when? My wand's still with Potter anyway."

==========

Pansy feels she's about to burst a vein when she sees Draco petting Potter's hair. The lunatic's literally buried his fat head into Draco's lap, snuggling and drawing deep breaths to take in Draco's scent. A sickly pallor tints Potter's face, but his pleased mug suggests a satisfaction Pansy longs to turn into pain if it were up to her. Draco looks extremely uncomfortable under Pansy's outraged look. Pansy thanks her lucky stars she made a reluctant Blaise stay in her room to prevent a direct exposure to Potter's blood.

"Potter, we need to talk," Pansy spots her cigarette-holder wand on the end table next to the bed. Draco nods, and she knows he secured it for her.

The surging gratitude and love for Draco by contrast lit a blazing fury against Potter, who's humming happily ignoring Pansy.

"Up this instant, you criminal! I know you can hear me! Draco, stop touching his hair, you'll catch a bug from the half-blood."

_Sweetie, don't stop, I feel like I'm finally home, _Harry's voice reverberates in Draco's head.

Draco stops petting Harry reflexively when Pansy grabs him by the hand. He drops Harry's head on the mattress, rising from the bed.

Thoughts of having a level-headed talk escape Pansy's brains when she sees Potter's smug sneer.

"Get out of my castle. The list of your crimes here is enough for a lifetime in Azkaban. Crawl back to your hole and wait for the Aurors," Pansy says venomously.

_Darling, I'm dizzy. Help me up, please? Remember-- Zabini's breakfast!_

Draco squirms and lets go of Pansy's hand. "Draco, what's the matter with you?" she yells. Harry frowns and squints at Pansy as Draco helps him lift his upper body.

"Quiet, Parkinson. Your whiny voice isn't the first thing a bloke wants to hear. Can't you see you're ruining the mood?"

"I'm going to report this to the Ministry," Pansy's nose turns even upwards. "Even you wouldn't find a way out facing the Aurors, the Parkinson fortune, and Mrs Zabini."

"Ah. I thought old Crabbe and Goyle were the slowest Slytherins out there, but you topped them off this time. Think, Pugface (Pansy bites her lips), why do you think I went through the trouble of Imperiusing _you _of all people?"

Harry makes a deliberate stop, waiting for the answer he knows Pansy wouldn't be able to give.

"_Pansy Parkinson, spill every shady secret you have on Parkinson Wizarding Hotels, _I believe, was my first order for you," Harry smiles widely, while Pansy's wand drops from her grip. "Draco, my chest hurts, kiss me better?" Harry takes off his t-shirt, revealing a torso marred by blood crusts and a long, fresh scar. Harry pulls Draco, tucking him under his chin. "Kiss me there? Now we have matching Sectumsempra scars!" Draco kisses Harry's chest, tightening his arms around Harry's waist.

"Let's see," Harry breathes, kissing Draco's scalp. "Draco, your hair's so soft, it's made of Unicorn hair-- patience, Parkinson, I'm getting there... let's see, illegal immigration of Veela 'ladies' into Magical Brussels. Hosting a Veela sex party in Brussels hotel for the Dutch Minister for Magic to win that bid for Amsterdam expansion last year."

Pansy blanches. Harry's hands snake down to reach Draco's arse. He shoves his hands down Draco's trousers and caresses the globes.

"Potter, please, not like this. Pansy's here--"

"Baby, you have nothing to be ashamed of. By all right you're far more beautiful than your friend here. Parkinson's an adult, she understands. Don't you, Parkinson? Especially when she's used her American hotel logistics lines to poach Re'em calves in Magical America. Draco, did you know your friend here bathes in Re'em calf blood twice a year? _For my complexion-- I wanted my skin to glow like Draco's--_ she said. Shame on you, Parkinson. Didn't the MACUSA designate Re'ems as endangered species?"

Draco's heart drops at Harry's machinations. Pansy doesn't cope well with humiliation. Potter's trying to break their friendship.

"Shall I go on?" Harry says. Pansy glares at both of them like a Basilisk. "Stop staring, Parkinson. I know you want some, but these arms are for Draco only."

"Pansy, don't let him get to you. I don't give a damn if you slaughtered Re'ems to extinction," Draco attempts to free himself from Harry's embrace, only to be deterred by the vice-grip of his Alpha strength.

"Do I hear something cracking? Is that your trust, Parkinson? But I'm not that bad. I'm a Gryffindor through and through, friendship and courage and all. Draco's doing what I say only because Zabini will starve if he doesn't. There. Friendship restored?"

"Pansy, I'm sorry," Draco hopes his feelings will get through.

"Don't apologise, darling," Pansy's reply is a quiet reassurance.

"Parkinson, why don't you... 'crawl back to your hole,' was it, and lick your wounds. And keep Zabini there, Draco and I have a spousal union to catch up."

Pansy turns smoothly to leave.

"Pansy, just do as he says for now," Draco's words follow her back.

Pansy's long-held frustration against Draco melts.

She thought Draco was too weak not fighting Potter.

She knows now, Draco is the stronger one.

And she finally sees: Potter is beyond the word _strength._

==========


	17. Subsist

**Draco**

Close your eyes.

Close the door.

Breathe deep.

Draw the picture.

Imagine.

Imagine, that one person.

Father.

Mother.

Friend.

Boyfriend.

Girlfriend.

Crup.

Someone you love,

Someone whose existence

Makes the world a colourful place.

Someone whose demise

Makes the world greyscale.

Close your eyes.

Close the door.

Breathe deep.

Draw the picture.

Imagine,

Imagine, that one person.

Imagine his last words.

Imagine her death.

Imagine what you would do.

Imagine what you would do,

In that world that's changed forever.

Open your eyes.

Open the door.

Breathe deep.

Listen to the clock's tick.

Feel the beat of your heart.

Pinch your cheek,

Feel whether it's real.

Draw the curtains open.

Look outside.

Look at the sky.

Look at the clouds moving,

The wind bearing cottons on its tail,

Brushing the blades of grass.

Look long enough.

Look until the sun tires your eyes

And you see blue spots when you blink.

By now you'd have forgotten

That you imagined their deaths.

How long did it take,

Twenty seconds?

It takes longer when it's real.

But it will happen.

Perhaps, perhaps you never really forget.

You still remember them.

But the emotion fades.

You would've felt as if the sky had fallen.

You would've felt as if that woman,

Chatting with her companion

Before the gates of her townhouse,

Disturbs your vision.

Why is she smiling?

What's so funny?

That Muggle oaf, skateboarding, his German Shepherd

Wagging its tail behind him--

Why are they having so much fun?

Patronuses arrive, from your friends.

You don't reply.

Phones ring,

You don't budge.

Work day,

You call a leave.

Weekend,

You stay in bed.

Not thirsty.

Not hungry.

You don't smell the odour

Your body starts to give.

But it all fades.

The fallen sky soars back.

You smile lightly at the horrible fashion sense

That old Muggle lady has.

You shouldn't be hungry,

You shouldn't eat,

Really,

It's so wrong, it's so wrong,

You shouldn't drink,

But you give up,

You give up because your stomach rumbles

And your throat dries,

And that food pack your friend brings

Smells so inviting,

That jar of water you know you have

Looks so transparent.

And as buds turn to blooms,

Blooms turn to seedheads,

Seedheads fly with fallen leaves,

And snow covers them all,

Things begin to replace

The memories that brought the sky down.

And you're hungry.

And you're thirsty.

And you smell the sour odour

Of your body.

You thought you'd die like this,

In your bed,

But you find out it's not that easy.

And you're hungry.

And you're thirsty.

Time for a shower.

You learn-- that the world that seems to rotate

Without him

Without her

Includes you.

You feel the passing of the time.

You hear the tick of the clock.

And you're hungry.

And you're thirsty.

So you get out of bed.

The mirror tells your unkempt reflection,

_It's a miracle I don't crack._

You learn-- even the coldest ice melts the next minute.

You learn-- even the worst nightmare passes the next day.

You learn-- even the strongest memory fades the next month.

You begin to doubt.

Doubt that thing called "forever".

Doubt the superlatives.

Because you'll get hungry.

And you'll get thirsty.

Pansy will get hungry.

Blaise will get thirsty -_I must do something about that it's all my fault-_

And, unfortunately, Potter.

And, most unfortunately out of all series of unfortunate events,

I'm hungry.

I'm thirsty.

So I get out of the bed.

To the kitchens.

Potter's snoring lightly.

The mirror tells my unkempt reflection,

_Do something about those bug bites!_

Yeah, Potter's a bug.

Strange though, I can't crush him.

==========

**Pansy**

That's the third time the quill snaps, and _Reparo_ starts to show its limit, Morgana's golden nails, why haven't they invented Mending Spells with repetitive quality!

_Dear Mrs Zabini, I'm writing this with a heavy heart... _no, no, she'll get defensive the moment she reads this, it's not polite to jump to the regrettable part!

_Dear Mrs Zabini, I'm writing on behalf of Blaise... _no, no, it's not like Blaise can't write on his own. And it might come across as emergency. She might come herself.

_Dear Mrs Zabini, Congratulations for your recent acquisition of the Malfoy Apothecary.... _Perfect.

_Dear Mrs Zabini, _

_Congratulations for your recent acquisition of the Malfoy Apothecary._

_It is truly noble of you to prevent those wolves from dismantling the oldest Pureblood business in history._

_The audacity of these Mudbloods and Half-Bloods to suggest a naming change!_

_Burbage Apothecary-- in memory of the brave professor murdered in Malfoy Manor?_

_I have discussed this on many occasions with dear Narcissa, rest her soul:_

_It was Tom Riddle the Half-Blood who murdered Charity Burbage, and not us. We were momentarily incapacitated by his tricks, I would tell her._

_I couldn't help Narcissa pass the ownership to Draco, one failure I will continue to regret._

_Lucius, well... it is regrettable that they were Bonded. Joyous, to be sure, under normal circumstances, but under circumstances such as these... a tragedy._

_But may I say your shrewd independence from the Alpha-Omega Bond has allowed the perpetual prosperity of the Zabini family._

_Seven Alphas at your command! My respect to your manoeuvre. May I hope to learn from a more superior witch as yourself._

_Merlin forbid Pureblood tradition be tainted by a Mudblood's surname, I'm sure you would agree._

_It was a timely and just move on your part to acquire the company, dear Madam. Zabini Apothecary sounds as good as Malfoy Apothecary._

_If -their- laws forbid Draco from reclaiming what's his, then today's most influential Pureblood family should assume control._

_Until the day we restore this society to rightful Pureblood rule._

_Those Ministry hypocrites may say what lies they have to say about us, but Kingsley Shacklebolt's favourite wine is the Superior Red, we all know._

_A thing to consider._

_You must miss Blaise, I know he can be indifferent, I'll tell him to write._

_We are in a regrettable situation here._

_There was an incident concerning Harry Potter, and as a result, Blaise may have compromised his Purity._

_The only consolation I can find from this is that he has become a vampire, a Being that at least bears a close affinity with the High Arts, than a putrid mongrel as Fenrir Greyback._

_He will be unable to see the light of the day indefinitely, and may have to subsist-- yes, dear Madam, for what other word could capture this rueful occasion--on Harry Potter's blood only, which requires a careful strategy. I will inform you if any additional development arises. In the meantime, I will make sure we return posthaste to England. If, by any chance, you wish to see Blaise earlier, you are welcome by all means to stay in our Venice Hotel. It would be easier to procure a Romanian Portkey in Venice than in England. I will personally see that our services are not found wanting._

_Your Friend Always,_

_Pansy Parkinson_

_P.S. I understand this letter contains information of great monetary value, and thus will ask my most trusted elf to deliver it to you. Excuse my rudeness for not using a formal owl._

=========


	18. Reward

_Potter-_

I feel his breath near my ear,

Whispering my name.

Just like when we were still in Paradise.

No one to disturb us.

No one.

The world left him in pieces

And I reassembled them into the completion

That was my Draco--

So he would live with no other thought  
Than to love me and be loved by me.

I created a separate pocket from people

Who would endanger us.

_Potter, wake up-_

No, don't let me wake up.

If this is a dream then let me sleep forever.

It feels like decades ago I last felt you so close.

They wouldn't leave us alone, would they,

People who never pay,

They try to take Draco away from me.

They aren't half so happy in their little safety I gave them,  
They had to go out their way envying him and me--  
Yes! That was the reason they took Draco away from me.

_Potter, can you hear me? _ _His temperature's too high. Salazar, we should've taken him to the hospital--_

Ah, that feels good.

I feel his hand on my forehead.

It's pleasantly cool.

I was right, I was right,

I knew you could make everything better.

I knew you could nurse this _thing_ inside me,

I knew at the end of my quest I'd find you.

Don't leave, don't leave--

"Wake up, half-blood, or is this another of your schemes? Ugh, look at him sniffling, this sex-crazed lunatic--"

"Pansy, I'm sorry, can you help?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"He must get better, Blaise needs his blood. You're almost as good as a Healer. If we bring him to the hospital they'll know it's Dark Arts that caused this--"

"Merlin's fucking balls! If it weren't for Blaise I'd have him thrown to my pet Nundus! We're wasting a perfect chance to--"

"Even without Blaise I'm gonna die if you do that. Bond, remember?"

"I hope this half-blood knows it's my magic that's saving him. Would love to see the look on his face."

"I love you, Parkinson."

"Shut up, Malfoy. Ugh, did I sound like Potter just now? My mouth's tainted. I should eat an Everfresh Lozenge after this."

Don't leave, don't leave--

_I'm right here._

Stay here.

"Draco darling, I think you're exaggerating. He just answered you, see? I bet Potter's just pretending as usual--"

"Pans, he can't work up a fever if he's acting. He's sweating. This is a Dark Arts side effect."

"I know! Am I not free to say anything after that fucking Imperius?"

"Fine. Just do your thing."

"And it's High Arts, Draco, not Dark Arts. I know you've been a little distant with your Muggle World life, but we aren't Dark. The Pureblood Rally, in fact--"

"Okay, okay. I so don't need to hear about the Pureblood Rally right now. Do you realise you sound a bit like Granger?"

"......"

==========

Yeah, that's my angel right here.

I knew getting his friends would work like a charm.

If I had a Time-Turner, I would've done this much sooner.

So much time wasted.

I mean, if I knew it would bring him to my side straight away.

I feel much better.

My angel must have nursed me.

His hands are cold.

His hands are always cold.

I warm them with wandless magic.

And he opens his eyes.

You'd never know unless you actually see him.

The moment his eyelids flutter,

And you stare into those silver grey eyes--

Times like these I believe in God.

Dudley's friend Piers Polkiss--

His mum's someone who believes too, I remember.

Piers once told her I stole Dudley's toy.

_Harry, stealing is a sin,_

_Look, the Bible says so._

_You should be more grateful to Mrs Dursley..._

Rubbish like that.

Made me think God's a bastard.

So unfair, so unfair,

So unfair on so many levels.

But there's no way someone like Draco's born

Without some greater will.

Someone who evades me as if God intends it.

Giving all the love he should give me

To random prats and bitches.

So unfair, so unfair,

So unfair on so many levels.

That's why he's an angel.

God's a bastard, he must have sent Draco to drive me crazy.

I have him right here with me, but it's not enough.

It's not enough.

I need to see the proof.

I need to see that upturn of his lips

And his rounding cheekbones.

He shows them to Zabini and Parkinson, smiling.

He never smiles at me.

And--

"Potter, you're feeling better,"

**And--**

**He's smiling!**

"Yeah," is all I manage to say.

There's something in my throat I can't swallow.

Something that appears when a long-awaited wish

Is finally granted.

It would be wrong not to hug him close.

"Potter, I want--"

Again.

Again.

There's that feeling of dread again.

Makes me nauseous again.

I think I'm gonna be sick.

It's how I always feel.

It's driving me crazy again.

Please don't let it be about Zabini.

Please don't say it's about my blood.

Please don't bring anyone into this thing we have--

Please.

Please, God, if you really do exist--

Please, Professor Dumbledore,

Mum, Dad, Sirius, Dobby--

Please--

"Potter, I want to check your temperature. Can I borrow your wand?"

Yeah.

Perhaps God exists.

Perhaps he's in a good mood today.

Yeah.

Sorry, God, Mrs Polkiss was right--

I actually did steal Dudley's toy.

I lied about it, though.

Dudley had like fifty toys.

It wouldn't have mattered, right?

But sorry.

And thanks for Draco.

==========

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of Harry's lines were borrowed from Edgar Allan Poe's poem "Annabel Lee".


	19. Omega

It's been two days since a very reluctant Pansy cast her Healing magic. She's made sure Potter improves. And he does improve. His vitals show that he's completely fine. Well, perhaps one--oh, for fuck's sake, fine--two levels below the usual definition of 'fine', but still, she's made sure Potter would survive. She felt her magic reconnecting Potter's damaged nerves. She even put in an extra effort to drive the Dark Arts--_my word__\--_High Arts magical residue away. All they need to do now is get a British Portkey, hand it to Potter so he would drop somewhere in London to make the Wizarding World great again with his Gryffindor sidekicks, build a big and beautiful wall to keep all the Purebloods away and protect the half-bloods and Mudbloods. So Pansy does _not _understand, oh no, she doesn't, why Draco doesn't leave Potter's bedside. Or, perhaps, she chooses not to understand, although she knows that the Bond compels Draco to wait on Potter's beck and call. She chooses not to understand because Pansy, like all who make their living lobbying and manipulating, understands how the human psyche operates in adversity. She does not want Draco to grow accustomed to Potter's show of vulnerability. She does not want Draco to get used with Potter's touch distance. She does not want Draco to stop resisting the Bond.

"I don't understand, darling, why this half-blood is still lying on our bed here. He's not _invited. _Let's bleed him ourselves and kick his arse back to London. He's well enough to get himself to St. Mungo's," Pansy says, applying a lipstick Draco got for her one day. She was adamant in her resolution not to use any Muggle products, convinced that magical rouge is far better. To demonstrate her point she used it once, but somehow all complaints on Muggle lipstick vs. Magical rouge disappeared the day after. She has been using lipstick ever since.

She casts a spell to fluff the fur lining of her cloak, getting ready to leave. Mrs Zabini sent word, writing she checked in at Parkinson hotel in Venice. Pansy wants Potter gone. If some confrontation is to take place then let it be in England where they all have better--and safer--resources. What Blaise needs at the moment is his mother's attention. If Mrs Zabini and Potter meet, Blaise's Alpha pride will crack. She can imagine Potter mocking: _Hiding behind your omega mum, Zabini?_

Pansy can't empathize with Draco's unsaid reasons for nursing Potter behind the ostensible purpose of asking him to feed Blaise. Draco's subtler yet attentive touch doesn't escape her notice. There is really no need for Draco to wipe those beads of sweat from Potter's nose. There is really no need for Draco to hold his breath whenever Potter looks up at him with that disgusting pleading look. There is really no need for Draco to be stuck here on Potter's bed when Blaise is the wounded party here. She's made sure Potter would survive. So why can't they just get on with bleeding Potter for Blaise?

"Water," Potter rasps. Pansy wishes he'd stop asking Draco for things. How can an Alpha be so inconsiderate, she doesn't know, when his exhausted Mate has stayed up all night. Oh no, she knows, in fact. His Mudblood strain is to blame. No Pureblood decency in Potter, none. There are bags under Draco's eyes. Potter's incessant nagging steals Draco's sleep. _Baby, don't go, I need you, water, cold, _things along those lines. He asks Draco to pamper him like he has never even once been pampered by his parents. Oh wait, Pansy, realises, his Mudblood mother and Blood-traitor father must never have had time to pamper him. Not that _that_ calls for any sympathy. Potter would have grown to be a far more insufferable git if he kept his parents. Imagine that ego coupled with confidence. For Salazar's sake.

Draco casts an _Aguamenti_ with Potter's wand. The spell backfires, drenching Draco's front with water. Pansy casts a Drying Charm. She knew they were incompatible. Not that Mates sharing a wand is the usual case, but she thinks to earn her victory where she can. Yes. Since Potter's wand doesn't work so well for Draco, they must be incompatible. She doesn't give a damn if that reasoning is a bit overboard, or that wand obedience depends heavily on personal temperament is magiscientifically proven. Blaise would have been a better Mate.

"What?" Pansy's eyes flash to wither Draco's hopeful eyes when he looks at her in silent request. "What?" She yells again, because she doesn't want to do what she knows she is going to do the second after. And true to her prediction, she does it. She swears loudly and casts the _Aguamenti_. She puts the glass down hard on the bedside table. The water sloshes, some of it spattering on the table. "Potter better be gone when we're back," she glowers. "I really don't want another incident in my castle. Particularly not with Blaise's mother and Potter--it's going to be a mess. And will you just get his blood already? Blaise is showing withdrawal signs." The only exception as the owner of the estate, Pansy turns on her heels, Apparating out of the castle through the Anti-Apparation Ward.

"Potter, are you awake?" Draco sets a hand softly on Harry's shoulder. Harry links his fingers with Draco's. He has been refusing to acknowledge Pansy's presence since Draco told him it was Pansy who helped through the post-Sectumsempra fever. It hadn't been his plan, so Harry's glad Parkinson's left the castle, however brief her departure is. Harry hates Pansy more than he hated Voldemort, paradoxically so because hating Parkinson is complicated, unlike Voldemort. It is easy to hate evil. Hating evil is simple and direct. There is no need for a reason. There is no need to explore the beginnings (although he did research how the human named Tom Riddle began his rise). Someone is evil, and that is all there is. Call someone evil, and you are in retrospect are portraying yourself as good. Harry is good. Voldemort is evil. His school, his professors, his work, his friends, the newspaper--everyone made it all so easy. They didn't put too much significance into the question, _what made Voldemort evil_. It saved Harry the trouble of thinking too much.

But not Draco.

It isn't easy to hate Parkinson. It's complicated. Draco makes it complicated. Voldemort is evil, so he is worthy of hate. Killing everyone close to him is a proof. Simple like wings and thestrals, horns and unicorns. But Parkinson? Parkinson was supposed to cower in fear, keep her mouth shut and hide her ugly nose in a dark corner until Harry saved the day, and then disappear into obscurity like the rest of the _evil _Slytherins, so easy to hate, so easily evil because that was Voldemort's House, wasn't it, Harry would think, but no, Draco complicates it. Parkinson, who had the gall, the guts, to shout at the crowd to give Harry up to Voldemort--is Draco's best friend. And not just any best friend. Knew him since he was an infant. Knows sides of Draco that he hasn't shown Harry yet. Yes, that word's important--_yet, _because he'll make it so, he'll see the precious pretty sides that Draco hasn't shown him yet. Closest thing Draco has to a family. Somewhere Draco can escape. Someone who can keep the man Harry loves with his entire soul fed and well even without Harry's care. Parkinson is one of Draco's _alternatives_. Harry doesn't like Draco having alternatives. No, no, no, Harry hates Draco having alternatives. Who the fuck does Draco think he is, keeping alternatives when Harry doesn't--no, can't? To the bin with the idea of being nice to the friends of your lover. So many questions. So many doubts, so many thoughts and envy and uncertainty. And now there is another. Draco says Parkinson Healed him. Harry's not an idiot. He knows the only reason Parkinson did that was to keep him alive for Draco and Zabini. And the complication from it all, the headache it gives--all of it makes Harry hate Parkinson more than he did Voldemort.

"Potter, it's been two days since Blaise had your blood," Draco says carefully. Harry notices he doesn't free his fingers. _Really, Draco? Does Zabini mean that much to you? Whoring your affection to me for Zabini?_

It'd be nice if Harry could just ignore Draco and let Zabini disintegrate into dust from thirst. No, but he can't, can he. He started this plan, this plan to keep Draco bound to him. Bound in another sense than the Bond. Each day makes him feel, feel the impossible, feel that the Bond is, as Draco said, meaningless. He's not earning it. Draco's not showering him with worship and love that every other omega shows their bound alpha. He needs to stick to this plan.

"Has it been that long," Harry says. It seemed moments ago that he mocked at Zabini licking his hand.

"Yes. You were going on and off like some switch. Are you feeling okay, Potter, Pansy said the Dark Magic traces are completely gone, it's just the strain on your body that's making you tired. She's mended your nerves too. You'll have no problem moving."

"It's aching like a bludger smash."

"Don't pull stunts like that ever again," Draco says. Harry sees that in the rare nudity of his emotion Draco's eyes narrow with the intent he injects into the words.

"You were probably worried about Zabini anyway," Harry says, sneering. His sickness dissolves the usual shield he erects.

"True, but there was the Bond, too," Draco avoids Harry's gaze.

"Yeah, figures you didn't want to die so soon, huh? No worries, I braced for Sectumsempra so it wouldn't slash through the heart. Your pretty arse is safe." 

Draco raises his eyebrows, jutting his chin up in response to the sarcasm. His eyes burn with more fire--_no_, Harry muses, _not fire, but life_\--than Harry's seen lately. 

"I meant the Bond's effects, Potter, not our distinctly unpleasant common demise. Not all of us are so attention hungry like a certain Saviour with a penchant for the tear-jerker."

The life that sparkles in Draco's eyes spreads to Harry's lips as he tries very hard to stop his sneer from transforming into a smile.

"Well, _ferret_, the Thestral calling the Grim black, huh, what happened to Potter-wanna-be ickle Dwaco?"

Draco scoffs pityingly. "Overconfident, are we, Potter? You were a sorry specimen of a knock-kneed, speccy git. I, unlike you, _owned_ my House."

Harry's glad that he took Zabini's Sectumsempra. He feels closer to Draco than he had ever been.

"_Were?_ Is that past tense I hear, sweetie? So I'm no longer a knock-kneed, speccy git, hmm? Whatever could Harry Potter be in Draco Malfoy's eyes now?" Harry moves their interlocking hands so Draco's can feel his bulging muscles.

Those eyes Harry mentions snap to meet Harry's own. "What did you say?"

"What?" Harry asks, genuinely confused. He took care not to say anything insulting. "How I look now?"

"No, what did you call me," Draco says.

"Draco Malfoy?"

The same memory strikes at them unexpectedly. --_You're Draco Potter now--_

Draco yanks his hand away, shuddering all over. He looks at Harry with a gloomy, frightened intensity as he would look at a Dementor. Harry's too conscious of his empty hand, missing the warmth and the exhilarating, almost playful conversation that just took place. It all evaporated in an instant. The fire in Draco's eyes are extinguished. It must be his imagination, but Draco's eyes seem duller now, a dark grey like a stormy sky about to vent its anger in heavy rain.

"I'll bring you some soup. Drink more water, that will ease your stomach before eating. You're about to lose blood," Draco's tone is too cold and aloof for Harry's liking.

"Wait, Draco, baby, I --"

Draco's reply is a quiet click of the door shutting.

==========

Pansy dismisses the lobby boy with a wave of her hand. The kid looks like he's just out of a Wizarding School. A concierge comes instead, receiving Pansy's coat and bag.

"Since when have we hired kids?" Pansy asks. She doesn't really care, in truth. It's meant to be a proper greeting for a hotel concierge by his employer.

"An accord with the Italian Ministry, Signorina. The Venice branch is now a vocational training site for young wizards in the region." The concierge's deep voice is heavy with accent.

"The Parkinson Wizarding Hotel a _training site_?" asks Pansy, annoyed that her aimless question is answered earnestly. But neither the concierge's answer nor the bumbling lobby boy are the cause of her generally cranky mood. It is the likeliness that Potter would not leave the castle, not without Draco.

The middle-aged concierge merely bows, wise enough not to pursue Pansy's words further. He does answer another question Pansy throws him, however, about Mrs Zabini's whereabouts. Pansy finds Blaise's mother in the hotel bar, nodding in conversation with an alpha who looks as young as Blaise. But Mrs Zabini looks not a day older since Pansy first saw her when she was old enough to remember. _And that, is her next unfortunate prey, _Pansy thinks grimly, adding to herself, _and Blaise's next stepfather._

It's Mrs Zabini who waves in greeting first.

"Pansy! Oh, my dear, dear Pansy!" Helene kisses Pansy's cheeks. Pansy's not sure how to interpret this sunny greeting. She's never sure with Mrs Zabini.

"Forgive me, I should have invited you on a happier occasion," Pansy says, returning Helene's embrace.

"Hmm? Oh, please, Pansy, don't let it weigh on your conscience. Alphas are supposed to take care of themselves. Isn't my Blaise a big boy? Isn't he an alpha? Omegas and women like us have no place in their fights. I like my alphas strong. Just like this fine gentleman I happened to meet yesterday."

_Yesterday? More like last night, _Pansy scoffs inwardly. Pansy is convinced that Blaise owes his character to his deceased father. Sometimes, when Pansy sees Helene, she feels she's looking at the Dark Lord, female version, just magically less powerful. But certainly not less dangerous.

The "strong fine gentleman" alpha, with his strapping frame, glossy straw-blond hair and boyish blue eyes looks like every woman's dream. But Pansy is not attracted at all. And Pansy is not envious of Mrs Zabini's beauty at all. Because Pansy knows. She almost pities this man's gullibility.

Because Mrs Zabini is not the average omega.

Seven alphas, including Blaise's father, had been Helene's lover.

Seven alphas, including Blaise's father, had left the world.

Seven alphas, including Blaise's father, had left their gold.

And each time they died, the Zabini family fortune would double, or if not,

Helene Zabini would emerge younger and fresher.

Because Mrs Zabini is not the average omega. For her, alphas are investments. Or if not,

Magical ingredients.

Blaise came knocking on the door of the Parkinson Villa one evening, a few days before their first day in Hogwarts. He smiled when Mr Parkinson said, "Hullo there, lad, make yourself at home". He smiled when Mrs Parkinson said, "Blaise! It's time for Pansy's books. Go and study with her."

But he cried when he saw Pansy. Little Pansy offered him a chocolate cookie and a glass of demiguise milk. "Don't cry, Blaise, we'll disappear and play in the secret place!"

Demiguise milk made them invisible for a short time. They used what little time they had to sneak to the mushroom house Mr Parkinson built for Pansy. Her parents knew the kids were ditching books, but they let it go, because Pansy was about to leave soon. Let her have some free time before Hogwarts.

And Pansy's childhood ended that night, in that mushroom house.

Blaise introduced her to the world. Blaise's story did.

The story about what he saw, what made him run away from home, what he saw Mummy was doing.

Pansy didn't perfectly understand what Blaise was telling her that night.

Blaise never repeated what he told her that night.

Pansy never repeated what she heard that night.

But the story gradually made sense as Pansy grew up.

Father tried to bite Mother.

Mother pushed Father.

Father punched Mother.

Mother shot Father with her wand.

Father fell.

Mother said we're having dinner.

Mother said we're having dinner with Father.

Mother said we're having dinner with Father, but Father wasn't there.

Mother said we're having dinner with Father, but Father's plate wasn't there.

Mother said we're having dinner with Father, and then she said Father was there.

Mother said we're having dinner with Father, and then she said Father was there, with the plate.

Mother said, Father is a big, strong alpha, so he can make Mother and me strong.

Mother said, she is a small, weak omega, so Father and magic can make her strong.

Mother said, I am still a boy alpha, but I will be the only Zabini alpha.

Mother cried, and said, Father and magic in her, and in me, at the table, will make everyone strong.

Pansy chooses to use the term High Arts instead of Dark Arts. It's how magic is supposed to be. The magic is so high up there, it's not possible to learn all that the High Arts has to offer in a single lifetime. Not even the greatest practitioners of the High Arts managed to do that. Not Grindelwald, not Tom Riddle, not even Merlin and Morgana when there were no such things as Light or Dark.

But sometimes, she wonders, as she applies lipsticks and glamours and Moisturizing Charms, it'd be nice if there was magic to retain youth.

She wonders, sometimes, which of the High Arts did Helene Zabini use that night, at the table, to make herself "strong"?

Was her husband raw, medium, or well-done?

If Pansy had the same opportunity, would she take it?

No.

No. She will find another way to retain her youth.

Like Re'em calf blood. Poaching and smuggling, but at least she's not cooking. Cooking something that she can't imagine cooked.

_Must be nice for Blaise, though, he'll age slower. Oh wait-- he's a vampire now. He won't age at all_.

The "strong fine gentleman" alpha locks his hands greedily around Helene's supple waist. Blaise's mother emits a surprised yelp of delight. The young alpha embraces her tightly, pressing Helene's ample bosom to his chest. Confidence and possessiveness gleam in his eyes. He must feel powerful, Pansy thinks. His alpha hormones must be raging in him like never before.

Pansy wonders if Helene would take him rare, medium, or well-done.

Helene Zabini despises all alphas except her son.

She was once a prey to an alpha.

She chose to be the predator instead.

Potter is an alpha.

Potter hurt the only alpha Helene Zabini loves.

==========


	20. Miscalculation

**Harry**

I know we're two sides of the same coin the moment she comes into my vision.

Sounds a bit like a confession of love, you'd suspect--you're close, but not too close.

You tend to divide things between love and hate, like and dislike--it's the same with everyone. Me too.

I know we're two tail feathers of the same phoenix when our eyes meet like one of those cheesy Muggle romance films.

Yeah, the part where the bloke suddenly lowers his Starbucks paper cup and stares at this woman like Venus de Milo's come alive,

And the happy-go-lucky woman's thoughts about visiting some gallery with Felicia and Jennifer or Steph and Jean stutter to a stop,

Time freezing, sounds dimming, vision lensing except the pair of each other's eyes they're staring standing.

Except I'm not lowering a coffee paper cup, and she's not Venus de Milo.

She's not happy-go-lucky, and she's too old to visit a gallery with Felicia and Jennifer.

Time doesn't freeze. The sounds that reach my ears are still more than clear. Like the sound of Parkinson swearing at me under her breath.

But that last part, we enact. We're staring standing.

Sounds a bit like a confession of love, you'd suspect--you're close, but not too close.

Not love. Love is an irresponsible word, you know, you shouldn't pull the love line too frequently. You should use it only when you have what it takes.

Like when I use it to Draco. It's not an irresponsible word when I use it because I'm always ready to take responsibility.

Not hate. Hate is... I dunno, it's too whiny. Godric, it even sounds a tad childish if you say it too often.

Look at kids. Teddy Lupin says "I hate veggies!" all the time. Before long, Rose Weasley will say it too.

And I know I'll be the cool uncle Harry who'll agree with their babyish hatred and come up with ways to placate them with chocolate bon-bons.

It's, uh, you know that feeling? When you meet someone similar to you.

Chances are you'll bounce like a bunch of Hufflepuffs, wanting to befriend him--or her, counting with your fingers how many similarities you have--

Or you'll feel that instant dislike, try to argue with yourself that you're different--you'll say, "Kevin got that award because he's a fucking nerd--"

Without really coming clean about your own nerdy hobbies. Perhaps you'll say, "Pat is so shallow? She's a tart--"

Without really coming clean about how you'd really like that 190-centimetre-tall university rowing club captain to fuck you over his canoe.

Yeah! I'm not similar to Voldemort. Don't say we are. I'm different. Draco keeps saying I'm like Voldemort, but I'm not.

I don't try to rule over anyone. I'm just trying really hard for Draco. I just want him to see we can be equals. I don't ask him to call me "my lord" for one.

Why can't he fucking see that. Years and years and how many bloody years am I supposed to keep waiting.

Uh, hold on, where were we? Oh right.

You'll cry, "I'm special and no one understands me!" or "It's peculiar no one sees anything wrong with the state of this society--"

Like an avid reader of the_ Witch Weekly_ or _The Daily Prophet_

Who never gets the idea that she--or he--is simply one among tens of thousands of like-minded subscribers.

People don't really react in the in-between. They're forever indecisive between wishing to be a part of something and be different from everything.

Yeah. Like Voldemort. He wished to be a part of the great Pureblood tradition and at the same time--different from every other wizard, be someone special--

Like a kid. Guess Voldemort never graduated from his childhood. We're all kids here. We're all kids here until we're 80 years old.

And Professor Dumbledore, he was always on love and love and love, he never knew that love isn't the strongest bond for the vast majority of people.

Some people are bound by hatred. Some by vague senses of responsibility. Some by habit simply. Some by addiction--like me, I'm fucking addicted to Draco.

Yeah. It's entirely possible for a person to get addicted to another.

Most people are bound by a blend of all of the above. Keep your cogs turning. You'll figure it out.

Curious about my reaction?

Well, the moment I lay my eyes on her, I fall in love--just kidding.

The moment I lay my eyes on her, I know there isn't a person on Earth more similar to me than her.

Except Draco. Draco and I share everything.

Out of tens of millions of Wizardkind, she had to be the one.

That motherfucker Zabini's mother.

I know I'm driving her fucking crazy.

Like Draco drives me fucking crazy.

She hates--yeah, we're all kids here--she hates me, I'm sure.

I'm too familiar with hatred, I know all its twists. I killed and was almost killed by people who hated me. Dozens of them.

So I know Helene Zabini is one of them.

But she can't really kill me, can she, she has to let her son get Draco.

Maybe if she hates me enough she can try killing Draco.

But that's too much risk even for her.

I'll keep my cogs turning.

==========

"Pansy, Could I talk to Mr Potter, alone? Thank you, darling, I'll see Blaise before the hour's gone." Helene hands her cloak to Pansy who disappears beyond the staircases. "Harry Potter," she says, inclining her head.

Harry doesn't acknowledge the cordial greeting. He crosses his arms and straightens his shoulders.

Helene emits a peal of silvery laughter. She covers her mouth with her hands, and the sparkle of the sapphire ring on her finger catches Harry's attention just briefly so. Harry notices the skin on the back of her hand is as smooth as an adolescent's. Aware of Harry's gaze, Helene lowers her hand and asks innocently, "Oh, Mr Potter, is that alpha posture supposed to impress?"

"If I'm trying to impress, you'll be the first to know, madam," says Harry in deliberately perceptible, sarcastic charade.

"I'll be waiting with bated breath then," breathes Helene. "Although, I have something to impress you up my sleeve." The female omega does not lower her eyes or bare her neck as she should, and this incenses Harry infinitely more than the saccharine manoeuvre with which she brushed off Harry's challenge.

A giant portrait hung above branching staircases leading up to the upper apartments rattles violently. The many bronze candelabra lighting the entrance hallway levitate, the flames of their candles dancing to the growing gale of magical force beginning to swirl around the eye of the storm that is Harry.

"Does that mean your wand, Mrs Zabini?" Harry whispers, but his voice carries over the sound of wind toward Helene.

"No, Mr Potter," Helene says, laying a hand on the swell of her bosom. She looks around the entrance hall with a theatrical terror. The sneer on her lips, however, suggests she is not in the least afraid. "I am a businesswoman, I know enough not to fight a losing battle. Why would a helpless omega like myself duel an alpha, and that the most powerful wizard of our time?"

The wind abates; the portrait stops rattling and the candelabra land softly. "Please, do tell then, what's the surprise?"

Mrs Zabini does, this time, bare her neck. The fresh scent of an unmated omega wafting from her gland clouds Harry's senses. Harry shakes his head and conjures a breeze to blow away the alluring fragrance. It was a peculiar thing to happen; omega scent on general, like Imperius, could not impair his judgement. There was something with Helene Zabini that exceeded the explainable, and Harry knows it can't be anything but magical. Only, Harry does not know which brand of magic Helene uses. Mrs Zabini's hardened eyes do not waver, and Harry knows that she is unshaken. Helene looks amused at Harry's expression.

"Yes, I am unmated, Mr Potter, you're not the first person to show that reaction to my scent. It's a common knowledge I had seven alphas to court me, but none succeeded Marking me, including Blaise's father: I am a staunch believer of omega emancipation. But that is not the surprise up my sleeve."

A pause.

Harry tries to think of the arsenal that Helene Zabini could aim at him. The Zabini fortune? Assassins? Journalists and the Prophet? The DMLE? He made sure he could counter each and every attack. He's got the life of her son in his hands.

"Mr Potter," Helene Zabini says merrily, "I have decided to wed Draco to my Blaise. I was about to annul their engagement since Draco was_ sullied_ by a half-blood, but now that my Blaise is a_ creature_ himself--I don't see the point of prioritising Blood Purity."

The words are plain, and the meaning is plain. But it hits him harder than an Unforgivable.

Harry wants to react in some other manner, yet the voice that passes through his throat is also dead plain. "Draco is my Mate, and Zabini, he's--"

  
"Draco is your Mate, and you are, indeed, Blaise's Bloodfont," says Helene. "But you can't possibly mean to kill my son, Harry Potter. I truly haven't the slightest idea why no one, especially Draco, saw it all this time. Perhaps he isn't as shrewd as he needs to be, no wonder old Lucius was always dissatisfied. You can't kill Blaise. Your omega would leave you, and that's the one thing that scares you alphas most, isn't it. You can't kill Blaise because he's your trump card."

"Draco will never agree. The Bond will make sure of that."

"We don't know that until we ask him. The Bond does not necessarily lead to a Wizarding marriage, I'm surprised you are oblivious. Of course, Bond-marriage has been the practice for thousands of years, so I understand you wouldn't know. But it's not stated, Mr Potter. There is not a single chapter, not one article in our laws, that says an Alpha-Omega Bond guarantees marriage. You alphas, you all assume we would happily marry you if you put a bite mark on our necks. My son, with his alpha perspective, also thought he lost his love forever when you Marked Draco. No, Harry Potter, no. There are omegas who'd resist such practice to the death. Tell me, does Draco resist you _still_?"

When Helene's footsteps are distant enough, Harry has to lean on the wall. He slides down, burying his face into his knees.

He's so tired. But he'll keep fighting. They all try to take Draco from him. But he'll keep fighting. And he'll win.

==========


	21. Green-eyed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> O, beware, my lord, of jealousy!  
It is the green-eyed monster which doth mock  
The meat it feeds on. 
> 
> \--Othello Act 3 Scene 3

"I wouldn't go there if I were you.

Sincere warning, Potter."

The words come to him wrought between chains of smoke rings

Soon dispersing all around, clouding the room.

The end of Pansy's cigarette flickers alive when she sucks it.

A cigarette holder in a hand,

A glass of boozy something in the other,

She looks askance at him.

Helene sits next to her.

She is reading a magazine,

No effort to acknowledge Harry's presence.

Through the windows, beneath the night sky, 

Draco and Zabini are walking the untended gardens.

Zabini sheds his cloak and drapes it around Draco.

Draco kisses his chin.

It's so syrupy Harry feels all future appetite leaving him.

His chest tightens and the lump in his throat is

Too big to swallow,

Too embarrassing to spit.

"Why do you do this to yourself, Mr Potter?" says Helene.

She is still reading the magazine.

She smiles as if the page she was reading

Offered a funny anecdote.

Harry wants to wipe that smile from her face.

"You are far too good to consort with us

Death Eaters and Blood Supremacists.

You are a young man with a bright future.

You could start a business, and you'd be a magnate.

You could still make the Ministry your career,

Despite your somewhat damaged name these days.

Doesn't it tire you?

Don't you find yourself losing that hope with each failure?

That one day, Draco might really come to you?"

Each word is like a scalpel under Harry's fingernails.

"I don't need any of that," he says.

"Draco is already mine."

His fingers pinch his sleeve,

Trying to gain a firm hold where they are

Unsure of their master's hurried confidence.

"Then what is Draco doing wrapped in my son's cape?"

Helene's tone is an affected bewilderment.

"Why do I see something I can so easily comprehend,

But you can't readily explain? What is it, Mr Potter?

Shall we construct a reasoning based on your... claims?

So Draco is strolling in the gardens with my son,

Because he is yours?"

Should he just use magic, like he always does?

Magic is a big problem solver.

It's never failed to get him out of a pinch.

Helene doesn't stop talking.

"As I understand, after you lost your parents

To the half-blood Tom Riddle,

Dumbledore acted as your guardian,

And the Weasleys became your foster family.

Draco's situation is not far from yours.

He lost his parents to circumstances above his power,

And we, as the closest thing he has to a family,

Have stepped in.

Until you... _took _Draco from his life, Harry.

Harry--is it alright if I call you that?

Forgive me, I couldn't address someone who competes

For my son's love interest so formally.

So, Harry, if you don't mind--

As a person who has lost his parents so early in life,

Aren't you aware,

You're destroying yet another family?"

Helene brings back those feelings in Harry.

Those feelings when

Vernon and Petunia and Dudley were watching the telly,

Crunching crispy bacon,

Forking fluffy scrambled egg,

While he, alone,

Counted the dustballs in his cupboard.

Those feelings when 

He had to return to the Privet Drive each year

Alone, alone while the others hugged their parents.

Those feelings when

He was alone, alone with the black hair and green eyes

Among a dozen redheads.

Those feelings when he watched alone, alone while Sirius fell beyond the Veil, Bellatrix cackling madly. Those feelings when he walked alone, alone to Voldemort, crowds of hundreds waiting for him to work a solution. Those feelings when he returned alone, alone while everyone who had ever showed a sliver of compassion to him stayed dead Beyond.

When Draco, trembling, huddled with his parents, while he, he had to count corpses. And then Draco left him alone, alone in the wrenching bitterness after the War, while he had to wail every night.

Those feelings when

Ron, Ron and Mione, Mione said they were marrying,

And he had to force a grin,

Clap on their backs, _Merlin, that's so great, congratulations, Ron, Mione, I'm so happy for you guys, _they left him by himself, and he had to go home alone, 

How could they, they had seven years together through life and death, How could they-- _How could you--_

Draco left him alone. In its worst possible sense.

All the other Aurors had a home to go to.

They dumped the burden of killing to their kind, loving wives and husbands and little perfect children, perhaps they cried a bit,  
Perhaps their spouses brought mulled wine for them, perhaps they felt a lot better when they cut into that roast  
Their _other halves_ cooked with unwavering belief that the _other half_ would return,  
Perhaps they shoved that bit of roast into their willing mouths with their willing hands,  
Without remembering, without really remembering that

The same hands had killed that Dark Witch

Who raised her husband and three children as Inferi, because

She was alone--alone too and too alone.

But Harry's team had to kill her,

There was no way they could restrain her,

In that crossfire of Curses,

So Harry's team killed her,

Harry doesn't know if it was _his _spell that cut her breath,

There were so many Curses,

And then he had to go home alone, alone,

While Ron went to Hermione,

While they all went to their _other halves_,

And he wished for Draco, because he'd understand,

Draco knows what it feels to be forced to murder,

He would have been... just _been_ there for him,

Draco would have huddled with him,

He knows what killing means, what death means,

But Draco left him alone, alone so

He would wail into the night alone, alone by himself,

And pretend he's all fresh and functioning the next morning.

Fucking Harry Potter. Fucking green-eyed liar.

Fucking Draco Malfoy. Draco Fucking Malfoy.

That feeling when

Draco left him alone, and went to Zabini instead.

When Draco chose to cry with his friends beside Narcissa Malfoy's deathbed,

When Harry's shoulders were ready to dry his tears.

Now they're all in their family retreat,

Draco and Parkinson and the Zabinis,

And he's the outsider, alone, alone,

He's done nothing too bad, he just wanted Draco back,

He's had enough of being alone,

Does Zabini even know what that means,

Does Parkinson even know what that means,

Do they know how much a-l-o-n-e weigh combined,

No way they'd know, they can't even _imagine_ the magnitude

Those five letters carry.

But he's used to it now. Harry is used to it, he's not the 10-year-old kid who'd cry in the cupboard, the tantalising smell of bacon and eggs coaxing both his appetite and his tears, he's not the Hogwarts student raging in his sleep for Sirius's death, he's not the traumatised war veteran lost in nightmares, he's not the troubled, guilty Auror anymore, because he has a chance now, he has the means to stitch back everything that someone, something greater than him tore apart, he just needs to have Draco in his arms, just, 

Just confirm that Draco's really, really with him, hair and scent of flesh and that pointy chin, all for him to touch, so that he can be sure everything can be mended,

That light follows night and he'll be fresh and functioning the next morning for one time, for one damned time, as it was intended from the beginning, who intended it, he doesn't know, but something greater than him must have,

Because there's no other way he could have found the answer to all his doubts. 

So he does the only thing and the easiest thing he can.

Harry ignores Helene and Pansy,

Steps out to the garden,

Pries Draco from Zabini's greedy fingers,

And he embraces him, no, _confirms _that Draco's really, really with him, hair and scent of flesh and that pointy chin, all for him to touch, so that he can be sure everything can be mended.

==========


	22. Back

"We're leaving now," Harry says to no one or perhaps Draco. He pointedly keeps Draco behind him, safe from everyone else.

"You must be out of your mind," says Draco, incredulous. Then he realises that has always been the case.

"We're leaving right now. Home," replies Harry.

"Don't--" Draco starts towards Blaise.

"Don't!" Harry echoes Draco's word. "Quiet. Don't talk back." Harry approaches Draco and lays a hand on the bite mark of his neck, staring him down. He draws on the Bond to demand his Mate's obedience. An almost feral growl rises from his throat low and dire. Draco cowers under Harry's gaze, lowering his eyes and baring his neck. "Don't talk back," Harry repeats, softer this time, growl gone. As Draco's trembling lips come into his vision, Harry plants a kiss on his forehead. "Look at me," he raises Draco's chin with a hand. "I'd never hurt you. Just come with me."

Draco doesn't reply. His lips move as if they were trying to form words, but Draco lets out a shaky sigh and lowers his eyes again.

"You're not wanted, Potter," Blaise says fiercely before taking Draco's hand.

"Fuck you! Hands off, or else you know what's waiting."

When Blaise makes no move to back down, Harry nicks his thumb with a _Diffindo. _It takes only seconds until the cut starts bleeding. Blaise immediately focuses on the blood. He takes a closer step toward Harry.

Harry lifts his hand and offers it to Blaise. As Blaise parts his lips, Harry shoves his thumb into his mouth. He winces a bit as Blaise laps and sucks on the cut, quick breaths and grunts. Harry's own breath paces up and his teeth clench to suppress the moans of pleasure from leaving his mouth.

Harry withdraws his hand and pushes Blaise roughly. The latter staggers backward, a questioning look on his face, disappointed that he is denied more blood. Blaise looks at Harry dreamily. His face is clouded with lust.

"How does it taste," Harry says, wiping his thumb on his trousers. "Good? Can't get enough?"

As he begins to make sense of what has just transpired, Blaise snarls and poises ready to strike. He catches himself only when he sees Draco.

"Smart boy," Harry says patronisingly. "You get it now. You don't want to make the wrong move. Draco, baby, you see that? He might have been good for you once, yeah, fine, but he's no longer man enough to take care of you. He might as well be an omega, all hot for my blood." Harry laughs mirthfully.

Blaise can't hide his damaged dignity. He's suddenly more than conscious of Draco. A quick look at Draco, however, tells Blaise he's not in the least affected by what he saw just now. "Potter," Draco says very carefully, trying not to anger his Mate, "I can take care of myself."

With those words, Draco mends the cracks on Blaise's dignity that Harry has made and pushes back against the hold on his neck.

Despite Draco's meek tone, Harry's face reddens. Draco's refusal to submit to his alpha and his decision not to take his side irritate Harry. His grip on Draco's nape tightens. Draco's eyes widen and he squirms a little, trying to free himself, only to be stopped by an arm that swiftly locks around his waist. "You..." Harry says. But he doesn't finish it, because he doesn't want to look like the cuckold. _You prefer Zabini's arms than mine? _The words are stuck in his throat.

"Sweetie, that's not true," Harry fails to mask the rough edge of his voice, although he speaks like a father does to his toddler. "Wanna bet? I'll drop you off in Diagon Alley. Let's see what they're like. Don't worry, I'll be watching for trouble. You'll see, Draco, you'll see, they'll want to tear your pretty face. They'll call you a Death Eater. You'll see I'm the only one who really can take care of you."

Still in Harry's embrace, Draco turns to face him. Harry loses his grip on his neck during the flurry of the movement.

"Blaise, give me a minute," says Draco. Blaise doesn't answer, but he leaves the gardens anyway, although reluctantly. He looks back once before stepping indoors.

Harry has never expected Draco to cup his face. But he does, and it takes him by so much surprise that Harry doesn't know what to do. Draco's hesitant fingers scrape the stubble of Harry's shaven beard, then moves up to brush away his bangs. He then rubs Harry's forehead, feeling the bump and recess of his scar. Harry feels his eyes closing. His lips touch the inside of Draco's wrist. "Let me talk to you?" Draco whispers. Harry nods.

"I _am _a Death Eater. Was, perhaps," Draco says. "Potter, you can't make me stay in the past forever. Life has to go on. Bringing up the past I left behind is not the way to keep me with you. You're only going to drive me away."

"Fine, no past. I promise. Just come home with me."

"So desperate, aren't you," says Draco. "It was only a month. I would have come back before you knew it. You were improving, I thought, but then you had to do this." Draco lets a pause between. "How am I supposed to live in peace around an Erumpent Horn just waiting to explode? Do you not feel sorry for me?"

"I do! I do feel sorry. Baby, I'm so sorry. I love you. I really do. I had my reasons. Zabini's mum said she'll marry you to that fucker."

Harry sees Draco blinking several times. _He doesn't know_, Harry thinks, and suddenly he feels the cloud lifting from his murky rainy sky.

"...Whatever Helene said, it's up to me to settle on a choice. You don't get to take that from me."

"I'm your--"

Draco stops Harry with a kiss, because he's frankly sick of hearing another of the words _alpha_ or _Mate_ from Potter's bloody snout. Potter kisses like he's going to suck Draco's innards out of his mouth. Like a Dementor would suck one's soul. His tongue swirls and doesn't let Draco escape. He only stops when Draco whimpers out of breath.

"Go back to England, Potter," Draco says curtly. In that moment, Harry hears the pompous, haughty Malfoy that had once upon a time been a thorn in his eyes, now the apple.

"Yeah, let's go home," says Harry, lightly biting Draco's neck.

"You didn't hear a word of what I said, did you. I meant you. You should go back. This isn't the place for you."

"And wait on empty hands for your bloody fucking holy matrimony?" Harry barks angrily.

Draco draws circles on Harry's chest. "If I'm married, am I less Bound?" He stares up at Harry through the eyelashes. "Didn't we agree to move in together once I'm back? Was it a mistake to assume you'd want me willing on my next heat, I wonder. Dream, Potter, of the things I'd _beg_ you to do if I come to your bed prepared, because it may come true after all."

"That a reward for letting Zabini have his way with you while you're holed up snug here?" Harry sneers, but Draco feels his erection through his trousers.

"I give you my word we'll fuck like _we're_ the ones married," Draco whispers to Harry's ear, "when I return."

"I thought you didn't like being the slut?" Harry tries one more time, fidgeting uncomfortably due to his tightening pelvis.

"I thought that's what you wanted me to be last time we fucked," Draco clings to Harry like an octopus.

"Promise me you'll refuse him," Harry says.

"I promise I'll do everything in my good conscience for that," replies Draco. He hugs him so Harry can feel the beats of his racing heart.

"And you'll move in with me for real, spend all your heats with me? This isn't some way to weasel out again like the ferret you are?"

"Oh, Potter, I am positively outraged you've put Weasel and Ferret in the same line," Draco says.

Harry chuckles and pecks Draco's cheek. "Alright, honey, I'll be waiting at Grimmauld. You know what, I'm feeling generous. I'll leave some blood vials for Zabini. But... you know you _promised_. I'm a Gryffindor, I'd be so sad if promises are broken. You don't want me sad, right, baby?"

Harry hums the tune of Celestina Warbeck's _A Cauldron Full of Hot, Strong Love_ as he returns inside.

Draco crouches.

At least Potter didn't notice his heartbeat had quickened out of fear.

==========


	23. Unclean

**Harry**

Shit.

My neck's sore.

Called a 20-galleon beta last night

And fucked her like I was in a rut.

You got to call a beta for these things.

You don't call an omega whore for a quickie.

Omegas get clingy.

They want you to clean them,

Lots of kisses,

Worse, you have let them use the bathroom.

And _you're_ the one who pays.

It doesn't balance.

One for one.

Two for two.

That's my rule.

I don't like paying more than what I should get.

There was this bloke on page 2 of the _Quidditch Sunday_

Who accidentally Bonded an omega rent boy.

It makes me shudder, imagine if I Bonded a prostitute.

Zabini would've taken Draco.

Man, am I glad I'm Bonded already.

But still.

Who knows what kind of dirty corners they've been to.

So last night, I threw in an extra galleon

So she'd leave without using the bathroom.

Needed that.

No, needed to _make love_ to Draco.

Yeah. I didn't make love to the whore.

I just needed an outlet.

So it's nothing.

That's why I asked for blond and pale and scrawny.

Pity her eyes were brown, not grey.

Shit.

It was like walking on eggs.

So many things to watch out for.

Book a room,

Since you don't call whores to your Fidelius home.

Offer a glass of water.

With the contraceptive.

No big deal,

They wouldn't want to get preggers.

An _Obliviate_ to her back

When she is facing the door.

No big deal,

It's so she doesn't remember who I am.

You see,

I don't need a _Daily __Prophet_ headline saying

_Potter's Walk of Night: Shame, Shame!_

I don't need Hermione to come calling next morning

And lecture me three full courses on

Witch Rights, Omega Rights, and Sex Industry.

Imagine.

She wouldn't listen even if I told her

I called a beta, not an omega.

And she'd add House-Elf Emancipation

To ice the cake.

I don't need Ron to look at me with that _look_

And say something like,

"Harry, a bloke can get randy,

But Mum's not pleased, mate."

And I absolutely don't need Molly

Bursting into tears.

And Arthur would start recommending

A Mind Healer.

He did when that bitch Skeeter

Wrote that rubbish on Draco and me.

So I don't feel bad about the_ Obliviate_.

She'll remember some random wizard.

Not Harry Potter.

Well, I did pay her more.

Shit.

I feel like shit.

Unclean.

And... I should have let her use the bathroom, at least.

The Bond's ringing like Voldemort's rampaging.

_Liar liar liar cheat cheat go see Draco apologise apologise cheat unforgivable_

I should have brought the Serpent Comb back with me.

I left it with Draco because he was having headaches.

I Apparate straight home.

The thing with these popular unmanned inns in Knockturn Alley--

You can leave without anyone noticing.

"Master Harry, Mrs Granger-Weasley sent a note, she did."

Kreacher greets me in the sitting room.

Kreacher's too old now.

His leg shakes.

His left eye's paler.

He's been refusing treatment.

The right had cataract, removed.

Now it's the left.

The tray with Mione's note on it wobbles

Dangerously, on the corner of the tea table.

Kreacher put it there, he can't see well.

I push it to the centre.

Kreacher bows.

"Let's go fix your eye, Kreacher."

It's time.

Can't hold off forever, he could go blind.

His head shakes.

He shook it.

Can't inconvenience Masters, lowly servant elves, rubbish like that.

"Stop being so stubborn and obey.

That's an order."

_That's an order_.

Used to hear it all the time in DMLE.

Funny that I'm saying it now.

He's a house-elf.

Can't defy me.

I wish Draco was a house-elf.

Then he'd always do as I say.

I would've been able to date him, maybe, I don't know, in Hogwarts.

We would have been much happier now,

If he was my personal yesman.

"Get dressed. 

How long have you been wearing that towel?

I told you, you can change everyday.

It's better for you to wear clean clothes."

Kreacher says he should

Clip his shin as punishment.

I say don't.

I open Mione's note while Kreacher's away.

The paper floats and refolds itself into an origami stag.

She does that when she's implying

I should have sent her a Patronus at least.

The stag grazes on invisible grass field mid-air,

Then speaks with Mione's voice.

> _Harry James Potter,_
> 
> _In all likelihood you aren't going to Owl back, so I'm leaving a note. _
> 
> _Please don't tell me you stalked Draco all the way to Romania._
> 
> _Owl or Patronus me within the minute you've read this, and set an appointment._
> 
> _Or you will find me, Ron, and Rose Granger-Weasley knocking on your door tonight._
> 
> _It's Charmed to alert me when you open it._
> 
> _-Love HGW_

I don't care much for a quill and parchment right now

With my stiff neck.

So I summon a Patronus and record,

> _Hey. _ _Busted? _ _Of course I went to Romania._
> 
> _Didn't really stalk him. He knows I visited. Zabini too. And Parkinson._
> 
> _I said hello to Zabini's mum, too._
> 
> _Gotta bring Kreacher to St. Mungo's._
> 
> _See you there, 11, if it can stop your army assaulting my house._
> 
> _No lunch after if you're calling me out on what happened._

I feel bad for saying this,

But I'm a bit glad Kreacher's cataract worsened.

Mione is always nicer when she sees me looking out for Kreacher.

==========

**Ron**

Harry looks like those idiots Madam Pomfrey

Had to treat for Engorging their own pricks.

He looks like he's sick.

Or like inmates after their first week in Azkaban

When Dementors were still around.

He looks like he's got his head up his arse

And got those bags under his eyes filled with shite.

Also like the witches and the wizards who turn their heads sheepishly

When their children pick overpriced toys.

Overpriced? Nah. The _Wheezes_ don't overprice toys.

George got mad once when I suggested raising.

He shut me up with

_Fred and I agreed on reasonable prices_.

_That be his memory, Cockle Ronnikins. To your station, first mate._

Correction:

When their children pick premium toys.

Toys like Fairy Dust Sprinklers that make you-_and your crup, coming this summer!_-float and glitter,

95% genuine, authentic, fair-trade fairy dust (Mione insisted. The fair-trade thing).

Or Merlin's Crystal Eye, sounds like a Horcrux, I know, but just lets you see through things.

_Now installed with Parental Taboovision, set a limit how much kids should see!_ (Mione insisted.

George and I voted for unlimited hypervision. George gave up when Mione Flooed Angelina).

Uh--where were we?

Sheepish.

Yeah. He can't fool us, ol' Harry.

Looks like that time

He's nicked treacle tarts from the kitchen and hid it from me.

I forced him to share.

Hiding something. But not treacle tarts.

Something bad.

Because I did say, didn't I, he looks like an Azkaban inmate, too.

Smells like a criminal.

Can't fool me. It's an instinct we've developed.

Mione looks at me, too. We talk volumes with our eyes.

Happens when you're married for years.

We were all Aurors, once.

Until Ferret.

Ferret wouldn't know that he's a big bloody landmark in our lives.

A constant pain in the arse.

But he's Harry's lil' wifey, so whatever.

Mione doesn't like me calling Ferret Harry's wifey.

"Ronald, you should not feminise omegas," she says. "Nor should you masculinise alphas."

Mione's seven miles deep into that identity stuff.

So let's keep this between us, alright?

I'm taking it easy. She's not as stuck up as I make it to be.

I'm exaggerating, partly. For fun.

There's been a whole lot less fun since Ferret reappeared in our lives.

And we lost our jobs.

Well, we still make money, way more than when we were Aurors, and, yeah, not blaming him.

I know, we all share the blame, Harry and Mione and Ferret and I,

But the Ferret has an inch more with him. I mean, don't you agree?

Mione seems to think she has that extra inch of blame.

I don't think so.

Sodding Malfoy.

Mione hugs Kreacher first (my girl is blind to the way Kreacher grimaces.

Kreacher doesn't return the hug).

She hugs Harry next.

They take Kreacher to Magical Beings Section.

Where all those non-human magical people go.

Harry comes back to sit with me.

Mione must have volunteered to stay with Kreacher.

Even after all these years, she never truly gave up on her spew.

Oh.

S. P. E. W., I mean.

"They're gonna be out in an hour," Harry says.

He bites his nails.

He didn't shave.

That's how his hair always is, but...

That's his bedhead. It's a bit greasy.

"Uh... Are you okay?" I say.

"Yeah," he says.

His eyes are bloodshot.

"So... you met Malfoy?"

I shouldn't say Ferret when he's like this. Nor Death Eater Junior. I'll stick with Malfoy.

"What? Ron, it's Draco. He's my Mate. He's your family, too. You guys should move on to first-name basis."

I could fill Robards's 30-page DMLE Auroring Dossier _and _Snape's 50-inch Potions essay just to argue with _that_,

But now isn't the best time.

"Yeah, when he calls me Weasel all the time, right?"

Harry grins. Okay. So it's not that bad. Then... perimeters clear for "Ferret". Authorised for use!

I'm about to let Harry hear some choice remarks about ferrets in general

When he drops into a bloody nervous breakdown.

Starts crying like... he's lost--not getting there. My bad.

We don't want to reexperience that.

Correction:

Starts crying, banging on his chest like he's swallowed a hard-boiled egg whole.

People start to stare.

Some figure out on the spot it's Harry Potter.

Faces lighting up happily although Harry's crying.

It's bloody embarrassing, I know,

It's drama all drama, no wonder they want to watch,

So I Conjure a hanky before one of them can offer theirs.

Tell them not to snoop their arse too high up the sky.

Harry had enough from them. Fucking gossips.

Between sobs, Harry says:

"Ron, when Draco comes home, I'm gonna propose."

Yeah. They're Mated but never had an actual wedding,

So it's long coming.

Let's make sure.

If I have to attend Ferret's party and shake his hands and wish him happiness for reals.

"You mean you're gonna fire the question? As in, wedding?"

Harry nods.

I'm doomed.

But then, Harry looks like he's doomed four times over.

He looks like ol' Sirius when we first saw him out of Azkaban.

Unclean.

Fine. Not even close, but with enough exaggeration, maybe.

So I ask the right questions this time.

Start with,

"You getting enough sleep?"

==========

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shame Shame Shame -- that's what Septa Unella said to Cersei in GOT. Quoted.


	24. Same

**Harry**

"Going to take anywhere between three to five days," she says. "The Healer recommends against house chores."

It's her take-no-nonsense tone.

"It's not like Harry's a slavedriver," Ron says. He's picking his nose.

"Slave...? Ron!" Hermione says Ron's name with an extra stress.

"Sorry."

It's up to me to snuff the ember before it blazes into something bigger.

"Kreacher," I say. "Kreacher, you hear that? No chores. That's an order."

"Good man, Harry, but there's a more humane way to put it--"

"He doesn't listen if I don't command him, Mione."

My two best friends shut up.

Kreacher doesn't, doddering on about bad elves and lost causes.

"Kreacher be finding his own way home," he says, "Dishes be needing washing."

"You go on, but no chores," I repeat. Ron volunteers to see him off to the gates,

Trying to avoid another of Mione's sermons.

"You have puffy eyes," Mione says.

"Wow, you had to point it out, thanks," I say. Mione sighs.

"Harry, I want us to talk civilly, so promise me you won't be mad whatever I say," she says it straight without breathing even once.

"Depends on what you say."

"Now that we're here in St. Mungo's," she says, off with a grand start, "it will put a lot from my mind if you could see a therapist."

She looks at me with a completely neutral expression.

Like seeing a therapist is as routine as a glass of water in the morning.

I won't be fooled.

"Therapist, Mione? Really? That's not what they call them here, is it? Last I remember we call them _Mind Healers_. For _unhealthy minds_."

"I'm not implying there's anything wrong with you," Mione says.

"Yeah, you better not."

Fuck.

My best friend now thinks I'm a nutcase.

We're sitting side by side but it feels like there's a 10-feet distance between us.

And an awkward silence just as deep.

We wait for Ron.

He comes.

Mione and I are looking at opposite directions.

Ron touches his nose once and combs his hair and then scratches his chin.

And he says:

"Er... what's going on here?"

"Your wife wants to fasten some screws up here and make me build blocks with Lockhart," I say, pointing to my head.

I'm not sneering.

I'm not.

And she doesn't lose. Oh no, she doesn't.

"Your friend would rather pick a fight than do what's good for him for once," she says to Ron.

"I know what's best for me! Not you!"

"Childish, too childish. You sound like one of those kids wailing in our shop."

"You planned this since you left that note," I say. "You knew I was going to take Kreacher here when I returned."

"You bet. You can't go on like this. Romania was a disaster, Harry. Draco didn't deserve that."

"Don't bring Draco into this! You don't know how it's like there!"

"No, I don't know. And now you'll tell me everything you did. I know you did something."

I laugh.

Ron's ears are reddening, watching how I'm talking to Mione.

Yeah, I know, it's not exactly respectful to your friend.

It's a matter of time before he backs his wife up, I know, the two traitors,

Or try to plant a fist on my face.

Can't have that now, can we.

"Ron, did you know about this," I say.

Need to play a little game with him. His weak point is guilt trip. Like Mione.

They have more things in common than they admit.

"Ron, did you plot with Mione about sending me to Janus Thickey up there,"

I manage to look hurt.

I am hurt.

I am. Believe me.

I'm just trying to look more hurt than I am.

"Well, Harry, it's a two-hour session, and apparently it can happen in your house if you want. And we're not saying you're insane."

Ron sits next to Hermione and holds her hand. Like they always do teaming up against me.

But his ears aren't red anymore. A little, but more from embarrassment.

Ron's not used to backstabbing like his wife.

But even Ron thinks I'm crazy.

Fucking hell.

"Harry, there's no need to swear like that. People are staring," says Mione.

I must have yelled without realising.

Okay. Let's calm down.

Let's calm the fuck down and talk with them.

"Guys," I smile. Yeah.

They're my friends. My friends sometimes care too much. Too much. Why would anyone care too much about someone else, I don't know. I know they love me, but they don't have to control me, right? They don't have to change me.

Let's think positive.

"Guys," I flash a brighter smile.

"Listen.

I'm not crazy. I'm not!

I don't drool like Neville's parents up there--

Okay, my bad, that was inappropriate, sorry,

My point is, I'm perfectly healthy. My mind, that is.

Is this about Draco?

Hey, I told you a million times.

It's normal.

I'm a bloody brilliant alpha! And I mean, _brilliant._ Truly.

You go out there, look around,

Bring one alpha, one alpha, perhaps I said this before,

But bring me one alpha that wouldn't mess his own brains up

If his omega's out shagging some other bastard.

Draco's the fucked up one here, you know. Not me.

Bring me one omega who betrays the Bond like Draco.

Guys, look at things from my shoes once in a while.

Ron! Ron, what you gonna do if Mione sleeps around?

Mione? What if Ron does that?

Bring me one alpha who isn't desperate to keep his Mate with him.

Bring me one spineless fool like me who actually waits--_waits_\--

For his omega to come back.

Fuck, I let him sleep with Zabini, you don't know what that means, huh?

It feels like a Dementor attack.

I'm not kidding.

You guys are betas, you don't pair with a Mate, so you'd never know how it feels.

It feels like Voldemort's made me a Horcrux all over again,

And I have to fight those battles, that War, all over again.

You guys have each other. Loyal to boot.

I'm on my own here, waiting, I don't know how long I can, really,

Fine, yeah, sometimes I think it's a miracle

I don't wake up a psycho every morning.

Mind Healers? Seriously?

I mean, we know their game, guys.

Their useless questions, the same old answers...

_Could you tell me about it_?They'd say--

And if I ever tell them _No, no thanks_,

They'll make faces like I'm pissing in their sitting room.

I mean, they do fucking ask,

And they don't take a no for answer!

Don't they have their own personal insignificant tragedies?

Doesn't everyone have their own secret?

They look at me in that room--oh, I can see it over here, Mione,

You guys know it too--the therapies we had after every death on the field--

They sit in that cozy room, behind their big desks,

Nice quills, crisp parchments,

Jar of chocolate bon-bons,

Clean faces--

And they look at _us, _us from the field, like we are some... some Horcrux!

Like an aberration! Like something that should not be!

Don't tell me you don't share my view.

Hey, hey guys, look, Iemme show you what they do.

_Mr Potter, could you draw something here? Anything._ Okay. What does an apple even mean?

_Mr Potter, what do you think you should be doing? _I don't fucking know, you tell me, that's your job!

_Mr Potter, even this will pass, nothing lasts forever. _Yeah right, it doesn't last forever, it'll only last as long as I live!

_Mr Potter, test results aren't always accurate on psychomagical pathology. _Then why do you even have your bloody tests?

_Mr Potter, that must have been so difficult for you..._ Excuse me, why are you crying when I'm fine over here telling my story?

Fat lot of good it does.

How much galleons do they earn anyway? Fucking frauds..."

==========

"Chill, Harry," says Ron. He pats me on the shoulder.

Mione clicks her teeth twice. "It doesn't have to be today. But consider it. Tell me if and when you're ready."

Harry doesn't answer.

"Look, Harry, wanna come stay with us after lunch? You shouldn't be alo... uh, I was saying, it will be fun together. We can watch Quidditch and have the room to us.

Mione can take the couch."

"No. Ron, you and Harry take the couch. Transfigure it or whatever. I need my beauty sleep."

"_Beauty_ sleep?" Ron smirks.

"Why do you ask back?" Hermione crosses her arms.

Ron changes the subject. "What's for lunch?"

"I don't know, you can choose. You're allowed to exclude greens this once."

"Finally."

Harry follows his friends leaving the hospital.

A day or two will be okay, he thinks.

But not more,

Because he's seen to it,

Draco is going to return regardless whether he wants to or not.

Harry would never leave him by himself for long.

==========

**Draco**

"Potter, you're a bastard."

Draco whispers to himself,

Looking at the blood vials Potter had promised for Blaise.

Potter did not lie.

They are vials all right.

They are vials certainly.

Red blood in crystal vials.

Pretty under chandelier.

Three dozens of them.

Potter couldn't have given that much blood in one night.

He had it planned.

These were stocks.

Three dozen vials filled with blood,

Enough to last for several months.

Only,

Every one of them is Cursed.

Draco tried to uncork a vial.

The blood in it rotted when he opened it,

Clotting putrid and black,

Then slippery solid like pork blood curd.

Draco felt his saliva turning sour at the smell.

He tried not to vomit,

And searched for his wand to Incendio the foul slime,

But gave up when he remembered Potter had snapped his wand.

Blood-Rotting Curse.

Master-level Dark Art.

Set to activate when the vials are opened by anyone but the caster.

Draco sneers.

Potter only Cursed the content, not the person.

_Why, Potter_, Draco thinks, _Scared you might Curse me and die yourself?_

It would be poetic.

The Hero who dies after unknowingly Cursing his beloved.

Wait. No, that was a mistake.

Potter doesn't love me. This isn't how you love.

He feels a pang from the Bond just by thinking that.

Where's that Serpent Comb?

Draco wonders if now might be a good time

To hand these vials over to the DMLE as evidence.

Harry Potter's a Dark Wizard!

Please, arrest him!

Only if he could.

The Bond rings.

_Don't hurt, don't tell, protect._

He wouldn't be able to hurt Potter.

Does Potter know, Draco wonders.

Does Potter even know how much he means to him?

No, that's not a correct wording, Draco thinks,

Why, it sounds as if I'm the one in love.

It must be the Bond.

Draco walks to the nearby table,

And writes something on a parchment.

He folds it and puts the note into his pocket.

Draco can't help but scoff.

Potter's favourite repertoire:

_"Your Slytherin friends are all Death Eaters."_

_"People will call you a Death Eater on the streets_."

_"Only I can protect you from them."_

_"I can help you improve." _

And now Potter's fallen so low he has to use the Dark Arts.

Or High Arts. Draco laughs briefly as the thought crosses his mind.

Pansy loves High Arts. Does this mean Potter's risen in her eyes?

Draco stacks the vials in a box.

He brings it downstairs.

Blaise, Pansy, and Helene are having tea.

Draco sets the box down on the tea table.

"Oi, Draco, watch it!" Pansy says,

When the impact rattles the tea set.

"Good, now we can sort Blaise out," says Helene.

Blaise replies with narrowing eyes, red pupils glinting.

"I have no intention in making a spectacle of myself, Mother.

Are you not aware Potter's blood has... effects on me?"

Helene smiles. "Such impracticality. You're not a schoolboy caught on his first wet dream.

Start getting used to it. And Pansy darling, you must let me have some of those tea leaves when we leave.

I haven't had better tea since that morning at Dolohov's villa in St. Petersburg."

"Dream? What an interesting comparison," Blaise says sarcastically.

"You missed _wet,_" Pansy says, winking.

"Is this a conversation a Mother should have with her adult son?" replies Blaise.

"Oh, and, Mrs Zabini, those are Chinese Green Dragon tea. I'll have some packs readied."

Blaise smirks. "Chinese Green Dragon tea, grown on exquisite Chinese Green Dragon manure."

"Your attempt to make your mother uncomfortable is failing tragically,"

Helene pinches Blaise's cheek and draws another sip of her tea.

Draco sits next to Blaise and leans on his shoulder.

Locking his fingers with him, he tells Blaise,

"Do that thing again. That vampire Allure thing."

Blaise rubs Draco's stomach. "No, I don't want to control you."

"It's okay, it's part of you too now. I want to hear it again," replies Draco.

Blaise nods. His voice adopts a mellow, musical quality,

Echoing lightly through the room.

"_But I won't ask you for anything using this,_" he says.

So different, so opposite, Potter and Blaise,

They're both so unlike each other, Draco thinks.

He kisses Blaise's hand. "Fair enough."

"We might have to cut this vacation short," Draco says.

"What? Why?" Pansy's the first to ask. "We have enough blood for Blaise..."

"No, we don't have any, in fact."

Blaise sighs. "Potter must have done something again.

I'm sorry, Draco, all I seem to do is burdening you."

"You should just be quiet and be the handsome vampire,"

Draco says.

"All those fairy tales about vampire princes we've read as children,

And you've become one."

Blaise doesn't reply back.

He realises Draco is putting up a cheerful front,

Asking him show his powers,

To tell him nothing has changed between them.

"So what did Potter do this time, that lunatic," Pansy says viciously.

Draco holds a vial and tries to uncork it.

Blaise stops him.

"I might react," that is all he says.

"Not this time, I promise," Draco says.

He uncorks the vial,

And immediately, the blood inside starts rotting,

Taking a black hue.

A Dark, smoke-like magical force

Coils inside the vial before wisping away.

"That's a Blood-Rotting Curse!" Pansy exclaims.

"Yeah. Potter's handiwork. No one can open these vials except him."

"That lying half-blood brute!" Pansy splutters. "I knew he was a double-faced snake!

"Isn't that what we all aspired to be?" Draco says. "What you aspire to be?"

"Well, yes, but not exactly like... shit. Fuck it!"

"Pansy darling, we're ladies. Let's not forget that," says Helene,

"I believe it's time we accepted Mr Potter has the upper hand."

"Potter is a hypocrite and a Dark Wizard," Pansy says.

She crushes her scone with a spoon in anger.

"Dark? I thought you told me to use _High_."

Pansy glares at Draco. "Draco, stop that, because this isn't really the time to joke around."

Draco shakes his head. "No. That's exactly what Potter wants.

He wants you to panic. He wants us to lose our cool.

We've already lost a lot to him. Don't give away more."

Pansy drains her tea in large, separate gulps,

And sets her cup down on the table.

Several deep breaths calm her down.

"Alright. So what now. Pack and Portkey to England,

Cower at home?"

"Who said anything about cowering?" Draco barks at Pansy.

He's starting to get annoyed.

"Can you not freak out for one moment in your life, Parkinson?

We go back, you go home, I yell at Potter, he spills blood,

Either willingly or not."

"You don't even have a wand," Pansy says.

Blaise simply watches in silence.

"I have better," Draco says. "Won't tell you though."

"Tell me."

"No. It's not that I don't trust you.

I don't trust Potter. You know what I mean, don't you."

Pansy doesn't know anything.

She doesn't remember anything.

Except Potter's disgusted gaze at her and an _Imperio_.

So she relents, in case it repeats.

Better she knows nothing.

"Well then. We can't possibly relax in this... mood.

Better start packing," Helene says.

Everyone rises.

Pansy angrily,

Helene gracefully,

Blaise tiredly,

Draco slowly.

Pansy stomps away to the hallway first.

Blaise follows her.

He looks back.

Draco doesn't know a vampire's sight

Is much better than a human's.

Or, he knows it from learning,

But isn't used to it in actual life.

So Draco doesn't know

Blaise saw him passing the parchment note

To Helene.

==========


	25. Turn

**Draco**

Ring the bell. Ring for the fiftysevenhundredsixthreemillion damned time.

Where is Steve. Where the hell is he.

Alohomora would be perfect.

But Potter's snapped my wand half.

Bang the door.

_Steve! Oi, Steve!_

_Open the door!_

The door opens.

The next door.

Not my door.

Lady at door.

_Noisy night, innit? _she says.

I say sorry.

She shuts the door.

Oh, right!

_Excuse me, could I use the phone?_

_What? _is her answer.

Sweet Mother of Salazar, these Muggles--

_I can pay._

She shuts the door.

Fifteen seconds later--

She opens the door.

I give her a tenner.

She gives me the phone.

Steve answers after the fiftysevenhundredsixthreemillion damned beep.

_Who's this?!_

He yells so loud.

It tickles my eardrum.

There's so much noise.

Booms and zaps and clangs.

Merlin knows what

_Dum digi dum_ and _Unce unce take it _even means.

Naturally, I yell too.

_Steve! Where are you!_

_ Hey yo! It's Dragon, Mama!_

_Where-the-hell-are-you!_

_ What?! Can't-hear-you!_

The lady purses her lips.

I mouth, sorry.

I wait until that _Boom Shaka_ passes,

Whatever that means.

_Steve! I'm home!_

_ Oh! Why now!_

_Long story! Can't find the key!_

_ What?!_ he says again over another boom. _I'm at the club!_

Sweet Father of Salazar, this little--

_Which club!_

_ Club Bow Rain!_

That's the gay club.

With the lame name.

Fucking hell.

_I'll be there!_

_ OK!_

That bit, he can hear. Merlin.

It's the same crowd,

Familiar faces.

Not all are, but some.

Some faces I've seen

When I had to pick Steve's

Drunken little pieces,

Soaked in vomit.

Muggle God help him

If I have do that again.

I expect him to be waiting.

He doesn't disappoint.

The club behind him is booming in all its definition.

He waves. _Hey, Draco!_

He has a petite, flamboyant little guy all over him.

It's amusing,

Muggles have these limp-wristed men

Even without the Alpha-Omega bond.

The pretty boy's all tense and hostile

When Steve frees himself to hug me.

_Steve, who's this? _he says.

Shrill voice. Shriller than Pansy.

Shrill and _whiny_.

Can you picture that?

That's several notches higher

Than the Most Annoying Woman in the Universe at Her Choosing.

I don't mind shrill. Shrill''s fine.

Male omegas usually have shrill voices.

But I can't stand _whiny_.

Because I'm not.

Not me. Draco Malfoy's an exception.

_ This is Draco, my roommate! _ _Draco, meet Carlson._

Carlson, pfft. Helga Hufflepuff would piss in her cup.

_Is that your club name? _I say.

Bullseye--his stance changes from hostile to aggressive.

I ignore him.

Because I'm taller than him.

Carlson leaves, scurrying back to the club.

_Gimme the key._

_ Nah, I'll come home with you._

_Good. Let's go._

_ You wanna grab beer or something?_

_Sure. And I have your present._

_ Where's your bag?_

_Left it._

_ What?_

_It's okay. There's nothing worth stealing there._

_ What about my present!_

_Doesn't matter. It's cheap._

_ What the hell, Draco!_

It's good to see Steve.

I missed him.

He wraps an arm around my shoulder.

We walk like old chums.

_Why are you back so early?_

_Uh... my friend got ill._

_ Oh. That's no fun._

_Maybe._

_ Did you take him to the doctor?_

_Uh, his mum came._

_ Well, no worries then._

_Yeah. I dunno. Uh... his name's Blaise._

Steve stops.

I stop, too.

"Hold on. Blaise?" he says.

"Yeah."

"Isn't he one of those wolves you told me about?"

"Right."

"You said he's the nice wolf."

"Yeah."

"You said Harry's a wolf."

"Yes."

"But Harry's your ex-boyfriend."

"That's inaccurate, but, yes, more or less."

"And now Blaise is your friend."

"Yeah. More than a friend, actually."

"So you weren't a zookeeper before!"

"I never said I was."

"Okay. So is Fenrir your more-than-a-friend too?"

"Er... no, no, that one isn't. He was a guest."

"What did you do before you were a chef?"

"I was a wizard!"

"Cool! Can you do the card trick?"

"Can't."

"You're messing with me again."

"I'll show you a trick later."

"Alright."

Steve's one of the few people that can make me laugh like this.

I'm glad I chose that restaurant.

I'm glad I agreed to rent a flat with him.

And of course, my smile freezes.

Because of course, I see them around the corner.

Of course, Potter.

Of course, Weasley.

Of course, Granger.

Golden Trio's night out.

Muggle God Jesus Christ. Ugh.

Their smiles freeze, too.

Not exactly.

Weasley's smile freezes. He looks like an imbecile inbred fiftysevenhundredsixthreemillion times over.

Granger's freezes, but thaws soon enough. _Hello, Draco, _she says.

Potter's...

What should I call that?

A smile?

A smirk?

A grin?

And then I don't see it anymore

Because all I can see next

Is the partly obscured

_P-U-N-K_ lettering

Of his tee, that's a fashion crime--

The metallic zipper

Of his leather jacket, another fashion crime--

His arms around me,

His hair, always messy,

His stubbles on my scalp,

His lips, cracked, closing...

_Draco, you're home,_

And then his nose, too close,

His eyelashes,

His rugged cheeks--

His lips, cracked, closing...

A kiss,

And I can't suppress the Bond,

So I have to respond.

His chin is cold from the night wind,

But his tongue is warm.

It's so wrong not to respond.

Between the kiss

Potter steals a moment

I hear _I love you _in his rumbling Alpha voice.

I manage to block the Bond a little.

I know what he's doing.

He's trying to shake the Bond.

Make it more volatile.

So I block the Bond

As much as possible.

Just a little.

A hangnail little--

It's been trumpeting in my ears, _Say "I love you." Say "I love you." Say "I love you."_

Of course I don't say it.

Potter tastes like vodka shots.

Bitter and sweet and sharp,

I might get drunk,

Get tipsy---

==========


	26. Unfold

==========

"Oi, Malfoy," Ron says, smirking, "Still chasing after our Harry?"

Hermione hisses. "Ronald."

Harry warns. "Ron."

Draco sneers. "Weasley," he says. "I'd like to think it's the other way around. Don't you, Potter?"

Draco hugs Harry and tiptoes, just to spite Ron. "Potter," he whispers. "Tell Weasley."

Harry smiles happily as Draco clings to him. "Hmm?" he asks, distracted by Draco's silvery hair tickling his chin.

"Come on, Potter. Tell Weasley it's the other way around."

"No need. It's pretty obvious," Harry says.

Draco smiles, victorious.

Ron frowns, defeated.

Draco sneers again. "Often, Weasley, we accuse others as what best describes ourselves."

Ron's ears flush like tomatoes.

"_Weasley is our King..._" sings Draco. "Remember that?"

Ron's freckles vanish into his crimson red flush.

"You should feel honoured, that song was meant for Potter, actually. We all do remember how thirsty you were for your chance at fame, Weasley. Granger? Feel free to confirm."

Hermione is about to stop the argument.

Ron's faster, however. "At least I didn't choose the _wrong side _like you and your old man, Malfoy."

Everyone stands stiff like statues.

Hermione pinches Ron's arm hard.

"Oww!"

"Do you have to be such a git?"

"What? It's true!"

Draco grimaces in indignation.

He didn't expect Weasley to broach the subject.

His thoughts fly to the woods, where he scattered his father's ashes.

He expected the argument to stay somewhat childish.

Harry glances at Ron coldly, caging Draco with his body.

Steve breaks the silence. "Hey," he says, a fierce laugh.

"I don't know who you are, but that was messed up, bringing up Draco's pa."

"Trust me, if you knew what his father was like, you'll be weighing this way, mate."

"Mate? Who's your mate, ginger?"

"Let's go home," Draco says to Steve.

But Harry doesn't let him go.

"Grimmauld. You promised. Steve, this is rather abrupt, but Draco's moving to my place."

Steve looks at Draco, mouth open and eyes questioning.

Draco pries Harry's arms from his waist. "Unhand me, Potter."

Harry lets out a beastly growl, pupils glowing yellow for a split second, a commanding alpha.

Draco bites his gums to stop himself from whining. But he can't control his neck bending bare.

Steve digs his ear. "Did I hear a growl just now?"

Hermione pulls Harry's sleeve. "Harry! This is Mugg-- This is _outside!_"

"I don't care," replies Harry. He drags a resisting Draco. "Sorry guys, let's do this later. Gotta get Draco home."

Draco staggers, unable to match Harry's long strides.

"Wait! Draco!" Steve follows like a lost puppy.

"Stay there! Stop!" Draco yells when Steve gets too close.

Through the Bond, Draco feels the alpha tearing at the surface of Potter's mind.

Steve doesn't stop.

Draco doesn't have a wand.

Potter's rounding on Steve.

Everything's moving so fast-- _No, he'll hurt him--_

_The timing is crucial, _she said.

_It will be challenging to control on the first try,_ she said.

_You will want an isolated place. Bed, ideally,_ she said.

Bad timing.

First try.

Open space.

All bad.

But it's worth risking if it could save Steve.

And more.

So he unleashes it,

He unfolds what's hidden.

Lets it cover him, all the street,

Lets it burst out and break that dam inside him.

Weasley and Granger cover their noses, casting Bubble-Head Charms.

Draco sees.

Even with protective magic, their faces heat and their breaths quicken.

Steve is down on his arse, on the ground,

Looking at the Bubble-Heads,

Staring at Potter's now fully golden eyes,

Trying to form questions with his mouth but thoughts failing.

Draco has never been more glad

Omega pheromones don't work on Muggles.

He hopes Granger doesn't Obliviate Steve later.

Potter's too close to react.

Potter takes it full force, unguarded against his Mate.

His hand stops at hair's breadth before touching Steve's throat.

Draco tries to speak.

It's hard to speak.

A low moan squeezes out of Draco's spasming vocal chord instead.

Potter's a drooling, huffing mess like a bull before a matador,

Green and golden and blackening eyes wide, wide enough to reveal the whites,

Clawing to tear off his _P-U-N-K _tee,

Staring, no, _undressing_ Draco with his bulging eyes.

But this time, Draco's in charge.

Because he took the reins.

_You will feel... glorious,_ she said.

_I did too, _she said.

_Oi, Malfoy, still chasing after our Harry? _Weasley had said.

Draco's amazed he can yet think.

His mind presents the answer forsworn and unspoken.

_Yes. But it goes both ways._

* * *

**Two nights before,**

**Palazzo Zabini,**

**After Draco's return**

_I want to be like you,_

The note reads.

Helene unfolds, then folds the note back.

She crumples the parchment.

It shrivels and blackens in the fireplace,

Then turns grey,

Then turns white,

Disintegrating into ash.

"Interesting thing to say.

Not uncommon,

And very ambiguous."

Her voice scratches a little.

She draws a small sip of water.

"Water, not wine, obviously,

Because you want this to be

A serious evening, don't you,

Draco darling?"

A small golden bell in Helene's hand

Summons Basso, Palazzo Zabini's majordomo.

"Basso," says Helene,

"Draco will be staying for the dinner."

"Yes, Mistress."

"Like. Consider the word, dear. _Like._

What does it mean?

Where does it start,

Where does it stop?

How much does it cover?

_I want to be like you_, you said--

It's all so very unclear,

Yet it's all that everyone wishes.

To be like-- whoever happens to be

On the receiving end.

We all want to be like someone else

Throughout our lives--

It changes as we get old,

As we change.

So traitorous.

So fickle.

So ambiguous.

Which version of me

Did you have in mind, Draco?

Did you mean--

Helene Zabini as the woman?

As the unmated omega?

As the owner of Zabini fortune?

As Blaise's mother?

A thousand other sides of myself

That I don't even know--

We all look different to... different people--

I advise you, change your question.

Ask the right question.

Let us change the question:

_I want to be like you as I see--_

Not perfect, but better.

I am invited to ask you--

What do you see in me?"

"Seven alphas courted you. You bore Blaise without forming a Bond. I want to learn. I want to see and learn how you keep yourself," says Draco.

"Oh, Draco," replies Helene, "So this is about Harry Potter."

"Yes."

Helene smiles. "They still call me Mrs Zabini, long after my first husband died. I never really kept myself, Draco."

"But that's because you go by that name."

"You're not wrong. I do. It's a reminder for myself and an honour to the memory of Blaise's father. Although... according to them, I killed him."

"Just a rumour," Draco says.

If Helene heard it, she doesn't show it.

Instead, she changes the subject.

"Do you want to be free of Harry Potter?" she asks.

"My head says I should be, but I don't know if I want it. My _want_ is ruled by the Bond-- I can't say if it's me wanting it."

"An impractical trouble. You can't be free of him either way. A Mating Bond is permanent. Your resistance will yield nothing, only damage you."

Draco rubs the mother-of-pearl inlay of the chair. "Is there really nothing to be done?"

"Again, why don't you ask the right question," Helene replies. "If you can't be free--then make your stand, rule the Bond."

The memory comes to him like the dull, itchy ache of a festering wound.

Potter had said the same thing.

_ There's not a single fucking thing that we can do_

_ To free you from me,_

_ Learn to wield that power,_

_ Learn to pull the chain you collared me with._

_ Learn to enjoy watching me die by your frown,_

_ Learn to enjoy watching me resurrect on your smile._

_ Learn to wrap me around your little finger,_

_ Learn to bask in the unbreakable hold_

_ You have over my life._

"Draco, who do you think has the upper hand in an alpha-omega relationship?"

"Others will say it's the alpha. You ask because you want me to answer it's the omega. But I can't believe that. Nothing within the boundaries of the possible works with Potter."

Helene smiles. "I will say this. Harry Potter will think the same about you. You may be the only object of desire out of his reach."

"You sound almost as if you want to give me to Potter instead of Blaise. Speaking of which, Potter told me you're marrying me to Blaise. Without asking me first."

"Oh, that," says Helene, "I lied. I know you wouldn't marry Blaise, not like this. My sole purpose was to aggravate Harry Potter's obsession."

"But why? It benefits no one."

"Let's say it brought you to me."

"_I_ _want to be like you,_ is what you said. I remember telling my husband the same thing when I killed him," says Helene.

Draco pushes himself back so suddenly that the leather of his chair squeaks from the friction. "You... killed? Blaise's father?"

"I remember asking myself, why can't I be like him? Why must I serve at an alpha's feet when I am also a Pureblood? I thought it unfair. I thought it cruel. I wanted to be the alpha. I wanted to be free from our fate, us omegas. But it was not to be if I'd allowed him to Bond me."

Helene waves her wand. Small sparks of fireworks burst from the tip, forming butterflies and flowers in the air.

"It wasn't an easy decision. My husband-- he used to do this, with his wand, when he courted me. He promised me all the sweet things in life, holding my hand under these fireworks he conjured. But I couldn't let him take me. That was when I finally realised-- that I love me too much to love him. No, in fact, I loved _no one _but myself and the things I could achieve in life. So... he died. And the next. I chose, one could say, I chose to be above alphas."

Draco recoils. "I don't know what to say. I... I think I should leave."

"Without finding a solution? You're partly to blame for what happened to Blaise. The very least that you could do is ensure Blaise's survival, free from Harry Potter's grasp. Isn't that why you sent me the note, dear? Not only for yourself, but for Blaise too?"

Helene's words are a roadblock, barring Draco's steps. "I can't kill Potter, if that's what you want," says Draco. "I can't free Blaise. Both our lives are tied to Potter. I thought you had a way, but apparently it's about killing--"

"I am not suggesting that you kill Harry Potter, Draco. I know that will end your life as well as my son's. Not everything is that extreme. I am merely offering you an insight-- you _can _be like me. You _can _carve out a place of your own in this world dominated by alphas. You _can _ensure Blaise retake the control of his life--_unlife_, again, if you're willing to take the necessary step."

"And what step is that," says Draco.

Helene gathers her hand. "Reunion with an old friend of ours."

Basso appears, bowing low until his nose touches the ground. "Mistress, dinner is served."

"Shall we continue this in the dining room?"

==========

A figure clad in black cloak.

His head is bare.

His eyes widen when we appear--

When Helene appears.

Fear.

He's saying something.

But I can't hear it.

An invisible force is holding him down

On the dining chair.

That's... Corban Yaxley.

_That's Corban Yaxley,_ I tell her.

_That's an alpha_, replies Helene.

_And he will be joining us._

_Poor fellow. Azkaban took its toll on him._

_It's only right that we,_

_His former comrades,_

_Help him,_

_Isn't it, Draco?_

_He got a life sentence,_ I say.

_Yes_, she says.

_He isn't paroled,_ I say.

_True,_ she says.

_Why is he here then,_ I say.

Helene pulls a chair for me.

_Because I wished him to be,_ she says.

_A Warden of Azkaban is paid barely enough_

_To feed his family._

_Yet it's a coveted position,_

_Among those who know where to look._

_Are you curious?_

_Too bad Lucius didn't have the time_

_To instruct you how things work._

_ A Warden of Azkaban, Draco, has access_

_To us, the old Pureblood families--_

_To the convenient arrangements._

_Corban Yaxley is dead, my dear._

_At least on the prison records._

I sit.

Yaxley looks at me.

I know that look.

Pleading.

Begging.

Imploring.

I saw it too many times.

Professor Dumbledore,

At the Astronomy Tower.

Death Eaters,

Before the Dark Lord.

Muggles and Muggleborns,

At Aunt Bella's 'parties'.

Me,

Telling Potter to go away.

Potter,

Each and every time he talks to me.

Basso lays silver plates,

Forks, knives, and spoons

For Helene and me.

Yaxley doesn't get one.

_He can't eat_, says Helene.

_But he can drink._

Basso sets a goblet

Filled with pitch-black liquid,

Bubbling.

There's no steam, though,

So it isn't hot.

Basso lifts the goblet to Yaxley's mouth.

Yaxley drinks thirstily.

_Now, Yaxley,_ Helene says,

Sipping a glass of wine.

_How is your wife?_

Why does she ask.

Everyone knows.

Yaxley's omega died.

His trial revealed it.

He killed her during the War.

And survived it.

There was no Bond between them.

Yaxley found an omega and killed her

For some sick Dark ritual.

Yaxley says something.

Incoherent.

His entire body shakes,

He's resisting the magic

That's binding him.

Helene waves her wand.

The shaking stops.

_I... I really must go_, I say.

I'm not stupid.

I sense it.

I see it.

Helene's anger.

Her bloodlust.

The tension in the air,

Tight like a straining string.

Yaxley will die here tonight.

Where's Blaise.

_You go, you'll find no other way, _Helene says.

She's still graceful, calm.

_Stay, Draco. No one will know._

_Here, darling._

_Let me make you feel better:_

_Corban Yaxley is a man of heinous crimes._

_He killed Muggles._

_He killed Mudbloods._

_He served Tom Riddle._

_His wand fired hundreds of _

_I_ _mperius, Cruciatus, and Avada Kedavra._

_He killed his own omega._

_He killed his own omega!_

_He will not be mourned._

_He's been a social tumour in life._

_Let him be nourishing otherwise._

Let him be nourishing--

Don't tell me she's...

Basso claps.

The dinner table fills

With a feast.

Crispy veggies.

Wellington.

Curry.

Caramel onions.

Truffle gratin.

Glazed roast.

Jellied meat.

Salad and cheese.

Fruits and cakes.

Yaxley's dozing off.

I let out a deep breath.

So the food isn't

Yaxley's pieces.

_Eat, Draco, _she says.

I find no appetite

Looking at Yaxley's emaciated form.

_Don't mind him and just_ _eat_, she says.

_I will give you your solution after dinner._

I eat.

I cut a small piece of meat

Just to be polite

And taste it.

I feel my taste buds

Welcoming the food.

I regain my appetite.

Actually,

It's more than appetite.

I feel like

I could finish the entire table,

Alone.

I feel like

I should finish the entire table,

Alone,

And Helene shouldn't eat.

It's all mine. It's all mine!

Yaxley makes small jumps

As I eat,

Like a bee's stung him

Or an ant's bitten him.

Helene eats too.

She eats with gusto.

Yaxley's body convulses a little

As Helene chews the food.

It leaves me wondering.

But for now,

The food's more important

Than some old man

Convulsing.

I direct a complimentary look at Basso.

Nice cooking.

He bows in gratitude.

I take more food.

I fill my plate with food.

Helene raises her cup.

_Yes, Draco, _she says,

_Eat._

I can't stop a tiny burp.

My horrifying lack of manner

Doesn't horrify me.

That's strange.

I rub my tummy.

It's swollen a bit.

I ate too much.

_Draco,_ calls Helene.

_How did you like the food?_

_Did it match your palate?_

_Yes, Helene, thank you,_

_I had no idea I was that hungry._

Helene laughs.

She points to Yaxley.

_He had no idea, too, _she says.

_He will have no more ideas._

Something about that

Strikes me as odd.

I look at Yaxley.

There's no Yaxley.

There's only a dried skeleton.

Helene forks a bone on the table, hard,

Playfully.

The fork leaves scratchy marks

On the bone.

She lifts a bone to her plate.

She begins to cut the bone.

It isn't easy,

But it gives in, slowly.

Basso unfolds the black robe

Covering the skeleton.

Helene cuts the bone on the table.

Half.

At the same time,

A rib from the skeleton

Slices into

Half.

Helene raises an eyebrow.

I know now.

The small jumps.

The convulsions,

When we were biting

Into the food.

We were biting

Into him.

I feel sick.

Globs of sour slime

Threaten to jump out

Of my throat.

Salazar--

She--

Helene fed Yaxley to me.

_Keep it down, Draco,_

She says.

_Alpha meat and just a touch of Dark Art._

_Now you will be able to control your heat._

_Now your scent gland will react voluntarily._

_Now Harry Potter will fall before you_

_At your whim._

_It's a pity you are Bonded._

_You could have charmed so many alphas._

_It won't be as strong._

==========

Draco rises from his chair.

He needs to puke.

He must go.

He throws up.

But he doesn't see

Undigested food.

Yaxley's pieces

Refuse to come out.

Draco only sees yellow-orange

Sour liquid.

The retching brings tears to his eyes.

He must go home.

Somehow, he finds the front door

Even with his vision clouding,

Dancing.

He falls to his knees,

His hand still holding on to the doorknob.

He ate Yaxley.

He ate

Crispy veggies.

Yaxley's Thigh Wellington.

Yaxley Curry.

Caramel onions.

Yaxley gratin.

Glazed Yaxley.

Jellied Yaxley.

Salad and cheese.

Fruits and cakes.

Someone lays a hand

On his shoulder.

It's Blaise.

Draco sobs.

_Did you know?_ he asks.

Blaise doesn't answer.

So Draco knows Blaise knows.

Draco is angry.

At Blaise.

The anger gives him strength.

Draco stands.

He slaps Blaise.

He slaps Blaise again.

He doesn't care

His hand is wet from puke.

The smelly slime leaves

A wet trail

Along Blaise's cheek.

He punches Blaise.

He kicks Blaise.

He pushes Blaise.

He hits Blaise's chest.

At times like these

He hopes omegas are stronger than alphas.

Blaise stands firm like a tree.

Draco's blows don't really affect him.

_You betrayed me! _Draco yells.

_You let your mother make me eat Yaxley!_ Draco yells.

_You knew and you didn't come! _ _Why?_

Blaise hugs Draco.

Draco resists.

Like always,

Like an omega always,

He can't overcome Blaise's strength.

Blaise keeps him locked in his arms.

_Let me go! _Draco screams.

_You shouldn't move until the magic sets,_ Blaise says.

In Draco's ears, it's

_You shouldn't move until you digest Yaxley_.

It's probably the first time.

In his life.

In both their lives.

But Draco forces himself to say it.

_I hate you! _Draco shrieks.

_Don't_, says Blaise.

Draco can tell from Blaise's sagging shoulders.

Those words shook Blaise more

Than his feeble blows.

_Why didn't you warn me, _says Draco.

_I couldn't bear to see it._

_I couldn't stand it, Potter having more and more power over you._

_You were mine, too._

_I wanted to give you an edge._

_So you can stand for yourself._

Draco is getting sleepy.

He doesn't really hate Blaise.

He just told him that because he was angry.

He should say something to take that back.

But the room swims.

Draco hears Helene.

_The magic's working, _she says.

_When you wake, you will have your weapon_

_Against Harry Potter._

_Unfold-- Unleash it._

_Do what must be done, Draco._

_You are a clever boy._

_The timing is crucial._

_It will be challenging to control on the first try._

_You will want an isolated place. Bed, ideally._

_Don't you worry. Yaxley was a human trash._

_You know the people of our world_

_Don't even blink for the death of someone like Corban Yaxley._

_They'll simply say he deserved it, the hypocrites,_

_Should they find out. _

_But they won't find out._

_You will feel... glorious,_ says Helene.

_I did too._

==========


	27. Reaping

==========

  
  
Potter's touch is on Draco's everywhere, the licks on his neck, hot breaths tickling his eardrums.

_I could take you right here, _Potter says. It's more a crude patchwork of grunts and growls, not words.

_I'll take you right here,_ Potter says. _I know you want it._

When his finger prods Draco down there through damp fabric, Draco's legs are no more than a pair of bending reeds.

Potter's embrace is the only thing preventing him from melting down into the ground.

Potter's pelvis is gyrating against his own, and Draco forgets to breathe because he knows,

He knows _so well _how he will feel when that hard length between Potter's legs enters him.

He knows _exactly _how it will taste in his mouth, forcing his throat open and feeding him its sticky, salty seed.

The filthy litany on Potter's lips confirm the treat he's in for. _So wet already. So ready for me. So beautiful._

When Potter shoves a hand down his front, Draco emits a surprised yelp and pushes him away.

A violent flush tints his cheeks because he knows, his arms lack any true resolve.

They appear to push at first. But then Draco's fingers curl into Potter's t-shirt, pulling him close.

_Harry, _he says, _Harry,_ _wait..._

Instead of replying, _Harry, _not _Potter_, yanks Draco's tops. Draco's clothes tear and evaporate in Potter's magical hand.

And the other hand, deep in Draco's trousers, works its own magic, cupping his cock, kneading, caressing, stroking--

_Harry, _the name isn't called. It's moaned. And as Harry's fingers form a ring to squeeze and milk him,

Draco screams another _Harry!_ and comes in his pants.

His hole squirts out its own juice, the stink of a bitch in heat thickening in the air.

And he keeps cumming-- his hips jumping, his hole _squelching_, he shoots his load in front of Granger and Weasley and Steve,

Coating Harry's fingers with his own jellyish gunk, his body bare and naked before _people, _and Harry's licking his cum, humming happily,

And he can't believe he's harder because he's watched-- _I'm not a pervert, I'm not a slut-- _he tries to tell himself,

But no one would believe him even if he told them.

Through the misty glow of his perpetual orgasm Draco makes out Weasley's very flushed face watching him,

Granger's worried face regarding him,

And Steve-- Steve, still on his arse, on the concrete tiles, stares at Draco's soaking wet pants,

And Draco cries and hides his face into Potter's nape because he knows his own eyes are glowing,

His pupils mere slits like cat's eyes because he's turning omega and not Draco the roommate, and now Steve will know they're different.

Harry snarls at them and yells, his demands are like a petulant five-year-old's. _Don't see! Stop watching! He's mine! Draco's mine!_

Draco can only thank the fact Harry's too excited to aim when his fingers shoot a Curse wandlessly,

Pulverizing a rubbish bin and its contents just next to Steve.

Steve screams and ducks, and Draco wants _<strike>nothing more than to be fucked by Harry into the wall</strike>_

To run to Steve's side and apologise, reassure him that he won't let Harry hurt him, they're not monsters, it's okay--

But it's painful, it's aching and both his hungry hole and heart clench at the briefest passing thought of leaving Harry.

Draco looks at Granger, tries what little he can to shape the gaze into a plea.

Granger snaps out of her momentary daze and hurries a _Repello Muggletum _circling around them.

She stands between Harry and Steve and erects multiple _Protego_s, 

Her next spell, and even in this state Draco can easily see what's coming,

Granger trains her wand to Steve, her next spell is going to be _Obliviate _and Draco can't accept it.

He will not let his friend--no, _brother_'s mind tampered for his own mistake.

With a superhuman perseverance Draco pushes Harry away, the Bond is tightening madly,

And Draco hiccups, crying more because Harry makes a sound like a wounded animal as he's pushed away.

_Shh, Harry, I'll come back, I swear, I swear we'll be together all night, _Draco whispers,

Pinching his own arm to create in vain some pain to help him last the excruciating next minute.

"Granger!" Draco calls loudly, trying very, very hard not to stutter, praying in his heart Harry doesn't rampage over another's name on Draco's mouth.

"Not Obliviate. Talk to him. Please, please. Keep him." He doesn't realise he's used the word _please_ to Granger. Twice.

Granger nods reluctantly, but her questioning eyes tell Draco she's going to dog him for explanation.

For the unwarned, sudden heat.

For the heat outside the cycle.

Steve raises a shaking hand toward Draco, still shocked by Potter's spell. Draco steps back. He must not let Steve touch him.

"I'm sorry," says Draco, "I'll explain."

At the conclusion of his responsibility, Draco finally allows the long-held waves of frustrated lust crack his outer self.

His head lolls backwards, eyes raised to the sky, and he breathes Harry's name. The nocturnal air is cold on his bare skin.

He wants Harry to envelop him with his warm flesh, tuck him inside blanket-and-pillow fort of his bed,

And just _do something_ about the ache inside him intensifying with each thundering beat of his heart.

_Harry, help me, _he whispers, and he relaxes as the Bond stops ringing, pulsing instead with promises of pleasure that the alpha behind him would provide at his call.

_Take me away, _Draco says.

Harry is instantly at his side.

_My flat, please, fuck me there. _Draco adds _fuck me there_ so Harry wouldn't refuse.

It has to be his flat.

For the plan.

Draco doesn't care.

As long as he's with an alpha.

_An alpha? _His own voice asks from the back of his head.

_Alphas, _he replies to himself.

Because it's not only Harry.

_I wanted to give you an edge, _he said.

Let me show you I never lost my edge, Draco thinks.

==========

Harry's Vanished Draco's trousers and all, the moment he Side-Alongs him to the flat.

With his pants gone the slick trickles freely down Draco's legs.

Draco blushes. He can smell himself, he can hear droplets of his shame hitting the floor, _plop._ _splat._

Clear, viscous, slippery.

He's starkers now.

He can't help fingering his hole, moaning as his finger parts his sphincter.

Harry deposits him into the bed.

Harry doesn't look away.

Draco feels Harry's eyes marking each angle and curve of his body.

Harry yanks his hideous _PUNK _tee over his head.

Harry unbuttons and kicks his jeans off.

Harry's wearing only his briefs.

There's a huge bulge. His briefs can't cover the half of it.

Draco wishes Harry'd lose the briefs.

Draco needs to see that thing pulsing under, all veins and red and pure alpha.

And Harry lowers his briefs. Slowly. Different from before. Languidly.

But Draco knows Harry's at his limit.

He sees Harry's thighs straining as his erection bobs up and down.

Draco's eyes roll back for a split second,

Jerking himself off to the thought of those thighs drilling Harry's cock into him.

It's really going to happen. Rather, he can't wait for it to happen.

He sees Harry's eyes glinting gold in the darkness, no longer black, no longer green.

Harry's overtaken by his rut.

And his scent... it's neither _Potter _nor _Harry, _it's an alpha and his Mate.

Draco almost lets the heat devour his last shred of consciousness.

_Difficult to control, _she said.

But he'll manage.

He's a Malfoy. He can do this.

His resolve is tested once more when Harry picks him up like he's feather-light,

And the next moment Draco's lying on top of Harry's body, rewarded with a face full of Harry's cock.

He tries to move, tries to figure out what's happening--but Harry's tongue licks him there, poking, prodding, parting,

And he knows and feels his slick escaping to wet Harry's face, he hears Harry moaning as he sucks and licks his hole.

It's not enough, a tongue isn't big and hard enough to stab that _spot_ inside him, so Draco whines and begs, shaking his arse like a bitch wagging its tail before it's about to copulate. _Need more, _Draco begs, but Harry ignores him, busy tasting the first few rings of flesh into Draco's body.

Harry doesn't let him move. His arms, thick and corded with trained muscles, hold Draco's waist firmly in that embarrassing position.

Upside-down. Draco's never felt so exposed like he is now. He lets out another low scream when Harry pinches his nipple while shoving his tongue as far as it goes into him.

"Let me go," Draco weeps, rubbing his own cock against Harry's chest as his heat builds up into something he can't properly explain. "Harry, help me."

Harry parts his own legs, granting Draco access to the huge... _thing_ engorged purple and red.

It's not the first time Draco's seen it, but it scares and excites him anew. He understands what he has to do to be free from this position.

Draco licks up Harry's erection, fondling his heavy sacs. The scent is piercing his nostrils, piercing the back of his nose, skewering his brains.

It's instinctive. With a pining sigh Draco opens his mouth and takes Harry's length whole, gagging and swallowing deliberately so his palate and throat massage Harry's cock. He feels Harry's surprised and satisfied breath down there around his arse, so he knows he's done the right thing.

He wants Harry to praise him, compliment him for doing what every little omega bitch should rightfully do for their alpha--serve.

Draco lets that thirst for acknowledgement flow over to his alpha through the Bond, and Harry gives him exactly what he wants: his two strong hands coil into Draco's hair, barring his way out. Harry grabs Draco's hair and lifts Draco's head up then brings it down again, fucking his throat roughly like he _should_, like he _must_, and Draco wants Harry to keep ramming into his throat, he doesn't really care that his chin is hurting and his jaw is cramping. Harry doesn't rest his own mouth either. He licks and sucks diligently, earning himself a continuous stream of slick from Draco's hole.

_A bit more,_ Draco knows, _a little more _and he's gonna get that delicious, pungent seed from Harry, it's gonna travel down his throat and nourish him, Harry should by all right come inside him one way or the other, so who cares if he comes in his mouth, it's the same thing anyway, he needs his alpha to come inside him. It's not just Harry's erection that is rock hard now, it's his thighs too, his abs bulge and define, his fingers scratch Draco's scalp desperately, first caressing lovingly and then pulling roughly, and from the way Harry's waist jumps every now and then Draco feels his alpha's impending orgasm, _yes, let it out, shoot your dirty load in me, lemme taste you, oh, Harry, this is what I was born for--_

"Stop," Harry says, out of breath, yanking Draco's head away. Draco feels the loss of Harry's cock from his mouth like the death of his first pet. Did he fail to please his alpha? Was his mouth not good enough? _Was I a bad omega? _All these heat-induced insecurities weave together with his lust, and Draco brings two, _not enough, not enough, _three fingers to fuck himself with because he's eager to the point of breaking but not getting, all the while shedding fat drops of tears from his eyes.

"I'm sorry, Harry, it hurts, I love you," says Draco, he should show Harry he's contrite, not fuck himself with three fingers and whine shamelessly. It's not what a good omega should do. "Harry... help, I need you inside me, I love you," he tries again, perhaps his alpha will forgive him if he's more articulate. His alpha will forgive him because he said he loves him. No alpha hates a loving omega, right? His heart is torn between _Harry, please... _and _I must not lose control._

"Draco," Harry whispers, helping Draco pull his fingers out from the abused hole. Harry's speech is slurred, interrupted by heavy breaths and quick intake of air. His face gleams with Draco's slick and his torso is wet with sweat and Draco's pre-come. "You're wonderful. I love you too," says Harry, rotating Draco's body to face him properly. Harry cups Draco's arse cheeks and kneads softly, slapping occasionally while whispering perverted debaucheries to his ear. _Didn't want to come in your mouth, I'd have blocked your throat then... Can't fuck your arse with a bulging knot... I could hurt you. Or did you want that, sweetie? You wanted me to come first, and rip you open with a knotted cock? Hmm? Draco? You wanted your Mate to come in all your holes? How much come can you take in you?_

At his alpha's temptation Draco blinks blankly because his mouth refuses to speak words, only whine affirmatively to every lascivious detail from Harry. He makes the mistake of locking his eyes with Harry's, he shouldn't do that, omegas are supposed to lower their eyes and do whatever they're told--and he cowers until he remembers again, his true purpose tonight, his consumption of Yaxley, everything was for tonight. So Draco slides up to brush Harry's sweaty hair back and pumps his transformed scent gland once again, so close, so very close to Harry's nose. Because tonight Harry must not have any kind of control. Because it's tonight or never. Because tonight it's Harry's turn to be... _dominated_.

"Do you like this?" Draco says, having regained a little of himself. "Harry, do you like this scent? It's all for you. Mark me again, here, on my scent gland--"

Harry's pupils now slit into mere lines and this time, it's Harry's turn to lose words. There is no trace of previous depraved eloquence on Harry's tongue. Instead, he's drooling like a starved predator, growling and tightening his greedy hold on Draco's hips. Like a wolf on a wild hunt before a rabbit, Harry pounces, biting hard and sure and deep over his existing bite mark on Draco. Harry gnaws on that raised flesh, biting repetitively, but doesn't realise he's letting more and more pheromones loose, engulfing and suffocating him until he's little better than a crazed beast, unable to do anything else than do what he's supposed to do to a primed and wet Mate.

Trembling to maintain control himself, Draco slides an arm each under his knees, and lifts them up apart to reveal his arse. "Harry," he says, pumping his scent gland again, "Come to me." Draco sees Harry shaking his head again and again as if the haze of pheromones were too much, but at last he claims his victory when Harry fists his own cock and beats off to Draco's voice.

Harry shouts something inhuman and attacks. The Mating Bond ensures their connection is at once satisfying, and Draco is amazed at the feeling of _such _fulfillment this act of intercourse is giving him. Harry's shoulders are now supporting Draco's bent knees, so Draco hangs onto Harry's back, scratching to stop himself from shrieking each time Harry's bloated red head presses on his prostate. Draco knows Harry can't speak now, he knows Dark Magic is stimulating the worst of the alpha inside his Mate, deforming and debasing Harry's rut into something more primal. _I must not lose control too, _Draco thinks, but his thoughts come to a stumbling stop when Harry begins pistoning rougher, pulling his near-whole length out and sheathing it back into him with each slam. "Harry!" Draco screams, "Not so rough!", fresh tears rise again and his fingernails dig bleeding welts on Harry's back, but that does nothing to stop Harry's merciless onslaught. _I should just give up, _says another thought in Draco, _this, _his inner self wonders when his prostate is squashed flat against Harry's erection, _this feels too good, it's okay to give up._ But there's no second chance. So Draco does everything he can think of, counting sheep, counting numbers as his walls are undone brick by brick amidst the squelch and moan of his copulation with Harry.

Stars explode before Draco and his vision fades in and out dangerously the more Harry fucks into him. Harry kisses him, growling and rumbling, his waist unstoppable, pistoning into Draco until the omega lets out a piercing scream and just climaxes, the rim of his hole actually trembling from letting out too much slick and his cock still throbbing without ejaculating anything. But even then, even when his vision whitens and his body is sapped of all its strength from cumming multiple times, Draco doesn't stop manipulating his scent gland to let out the last few puffs of his dominating pheromones.

Confident that he's got him finally, Draco slides his legs around Harry and draws him close, whispering into Harry's ear, feeling Harry's sweat beading and dropping on his face--he thinks he might even love the taste of Harry's salty sweat when a stray drop falls on his chafed lips--"Come inside me. Fill me up until I swell and please don't stop, don't stop," he tells Harry, and Harry does just that, at Draco's behest, this time, the only time an alpha is at the complete mercy of an omega. Harrys growls and whines, actually whines like a hurt animal, asking to be petted, begging Draco to embrace him with a protective warmth while he empties his entire being into Draco's hole, buttocks clenching and rolling greedily while Draco gasps because he feels his insides swell from the overflowing liquid.

And at the exact moment when Harry's knot expands and enlarges, Draco hangs onto the last of his control and signals Blaise, who materialises out of a black fog and bites Harry's neck, a wand in his hand.

Draco hears Harry's blood flowing into Blaise's mouth, Blaise sucking and swallowing with gusto, Draco can see how Blaise is humping everywhere he can reach of Harry. Blaise's red eyes glow Draco's way, and Draco smiles triumphantly, because he knows he has taken his freedom back from Potter. Even in a vampire's bloodlust Blaise blinks tenderly at Draco, congratulating him of this victory both small and great, as Harry begins to whimper more like an omega than an alpha and again goes through his second, or third, or fourth orgasm--his cock encased in Draco's suffocating warmth, his neck pierced by Blaise's hypnotic fangs. And Draco has no intention of letting Harry go, he's going to take all of him, milk him dry, suck him empty--for sweet revenge and the promise of Blaise's salvation. _You will feel glorious, _Helene had told him, and Draco knows what she had meant by that. His control on his heat is growing firmer each moment, and a state of clarity and composure dawns on him. Draco sucks in the raging waves of lust into himself, and they calm into something he can adjust within him.

Harry mewls, his cock impaling Draco, his muscles all straining and bulging from the pleasure that feels almost like torture-- but he can't free himself from Draco because he's already knotted inside him.

At first Harry doesn't comprehend what's set in motion, too blind and too feral to distinguish between the different facets of his pleasures. So only when it becomes too much, when Blaise has sucked enough blood from him to drive him into a euphoric weakness, does Harry recover some coherence. "Stop," he says, "Stop, fuck, stop..."

But he doesn't stop cumming because Blaise is still sucking his blood.

Draco smiles, his pale cheek tinted pink, his pale lips red like rose petals, his eyes glittering in triumph, and Harry can't put him out of his mind, Draco is more beautiful now than ever, Harry realises at this moment, at this second, Draco's holding his lifeline, at this rate he's gonna die from the loss of blood or perhaps even overwhelming pleasure, and Draco's going to die with him--

"Draco," Harry cries, "Draco, you can't... you'll..."

But Draco doesn't stop, he keeps his legs firmly locked around Harry's waist and clenches his hole, milking Harry and accelerating his unending climax--

"Do you remember threatening me with an Unbreakable Vow? It's your turn to swear now," says Draco, out of breath from his own pleasure. He clasps his right hand with Harry's, and pulls his Mate for another kiss. Draco kisses him enthusiastically, biting his lips and drawing blood. "Don't even think of casting spells. There isn't enough blood in you right now and you'll damage me too; we're still connected. Just let go, and let me take care of you... Swear you'll provide Blaise's blood freely."

"Draco, I'm gonna come--"

"Swear, and I'll tell Blaise to stop."

Draco is surprised that he can even manage to adopt such a voice--the voice of a bitch in heat, a bitch in full control of his own lust--he sounds so lewd, and so cheap-- but he still whispers, breathing on Harry's skin and sucking Harry's nipples, "Come on, Harry, say it-- will you, Harry Potter, give your blood freely to Blaise, when he demands it for his survival?"

"Draco, this isn't--"

"Please, Harry," Draco says, hugging Harry's head into his embrace, petting him like a mother. "This can happen again. My heat, with you."

Draco hears a muffled, sobbing _I will, _and a damp warmth spreads inside him because Harry's achieved another climax. A brilliant stream of fire erupts from Blaise's wand and coils around Draco and Harry's wrists.

"One more to go, _my alpha_," whispers Draco. "Just one more. Will you, Harry Potter, stop furthering your own interests by endangering intentionally the lives of Draco Malfoy's friends?"

"......" His head hidden in Draco's embrace, Harry musters one last bit of his Imperius-resistant will.

"Fool," Draco says, kissing Harry's forehead. Again Draco pumps his scent gland, releasing his pheromones, and this time, Blaise murmurs on Harry's neck with a melodious, haunting timbre behind his voice. _Do it, Potter. You'll make Draco happy. Happily ever after._

"Happily ever after," Harry repeats, intoxicated and hypnotised. Blood loss and exhaustion of his rut suck what little resistance he builds down into the drain of oblivion.

_Yes. You, Draco's Mate, will make Draco very happy._

"I will," Harry says, and a second stream of fire appears to lock and seal the Unbreakable Vow.

_Now sleep,_ Blaise says, licking the puncture wounds on Harry's neck. The wounds heal immediately, without leaving any trace.

"Sleep," repeats Harry, and carries it out.

==========

Between Harry's snores, Draco asks in a scared voice, "I haven't betrayed him, have I."

Blaise Scourgifies the grimes and scent of sex away from Draco and Harry, still knotted. "Does the Bond alarm you?"

Draco closes his eyes briefly, searching himself. "No, it's never been calmer."

Blaise glares at Harry's sleeping form coldly. "That means you're fine," he says, "You've done nothing but reaffirm what every Pair should give each other: freedom."

"Tell me you love me," Blaise dares Draco.

"I love you," Draco says without hesitation.

"How's the Bond."

"...it's ringing like a Tempus Alarm," answers Draco.

"Then it's something you should be careful about, as you know already."

"As I've known and as I will continue to disregard, Zabini. Suck it up," challenges Draco.

Blaise smirks. "Zabini?"

Draco smiles. "Blaise."

"Rest, Draco. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Good night, Blaise," Draco replies, absently stroking Harry's hair.

Blaise leaves the Muggle flat. The words he left unsaid still dance in his mouth, and he swallows them bitterly.

_You certainly seem used to having Potter around me._

The sight of Draco unknowingly petting Potter's head turns from sketch to picture and then a full-framed colour portrait inside Blaise's mind.

==========


	28. The Curse

==========

It's the second morning after that night.

Draco's still in heat, but I can sense his pheromones are thinning.

My mind's calming along with him, the brains Draco'd squeezed right out of my head

Seep back where they came from with the fickle morning sunlight.

Draco's heat has never lasted too long.

Omega heats tend to cover a whole week, the Sweek_\--sweet week--_we alphas conveniently call it.

But Draco's reluctance messes up his pheromones and heat cycle.

I'm sure it's no good for him, holding back like that.

He mumbles in his sleep and reaches for me.

He can't because I'm spooning him from behind, his back and my chest plastered skin-to-skin.

Beautiful. Adorable.

His limbs swim in the air, and his sleepy moan drives all the blood in me

Straight to my cock.

_Draco, _I whisper to his ear, appreciating that tuft of platinum hair covering his nape, inviting kisses.

I cover Draco's neck with a dozen kisses and leave retaliatory love-bites

When I feel my back stinging from his scratches.

_Baby, it's morning already, _I say, fondling my cock and jerking it urgently as my love whines in protest.

Hey, I'm not a sex-crazed pervert like Parkinson puts it.

There is a reason I do this, people.

You see, omegas in heat can't eat that much.

So they tend to beg their immediate caretakers for nutrition when they wake up.

For cum.

I want to be ready for my Mate.

His eyes, the two things in the word that will make everything soar

And crush open the abyss under the rock bottom--

The abyss opens!--those mercury-grey orbs never cease to amaze me.

No magic, not one magical phenomenon in this whole wide world could reproduce those mysterious eyes.

Have I told you my Draco's eyes change shades from different angle?

I told Ron, but he says it's rubbish.

I told Mione too, but she says it's all in my head.

I don't think so.

My Draco's eyes are so enchanting,

I know a wizard using that word beats the meaning, but listen:

Molten silver when he's excited,

Stormy sky when he's angry,

White crystal when he's crying,

Cotton snow when he's amused.

The entire universe swirls in the eyes of my love, and I'm floating in it.

But usually, when he directs those addicting eyes at me,

They're mercury.

Steaming hot bubbling mercury, lethal fumes draping around me in murderous appeal.

And if you've paid any attention in your second-year Potions, 

Or again reading _Five Lectures on Healing Magic_\--I hated that book, by the way,

They always have to write them in pretentious words, huh, the Auror-training Materials--

You'd know mercury kills you slowly.

My Draco's eyes kill me slowly.

Steaming hot bubbling mercury paralyses my nerves and vision and brains,

And my entire being, hair-to-toe, evaporates into grey November sky the colour of my dear Draco's eyes.

Intoxicating. I don't know whether I should cry or laugh under Draco's gaze.

He smiles!

And he reaches for me, eyes half-lidded and limbs flailing to drive off his sleep.

I move over and feed him my cock, mind you, not because I want it.

Because he needs it. It's not force-feeding because,

See, he's suckling at it like an infant on its mum's teats.

His delicate fingers reach down to his own cock.

He releases me and the thought of his drool on my cock is too arousing.

_Harry, I want your come, _he says. Let me repeat. _Harry, I want your come, _he says.

I pet my little siren's hair and guide my cock back into his mouth.

The orgasm hits me in waves, so I gush down his throat like how he wants it.

A stupid smile plastered on his lips, Draco sucks me like a lollipop,

His thick and long eyelashes are fluttering as he gulps my jizz down to the last drop.

The base of my cock bulges only slightly and I know my rut's nearing its end, too.

And then it happens again.

The rejection.

With his diminishing lust Draco turns from me,

Looking at everything _but _me,

And it hurts so much because he's so perfect.

You'd know, how it feels to be rejected by someone you think as perfection.

You'd feel imperfect, to drive the point clear,

Your imperfection would multiply as you mince that slice of bitter squash over and over,

But you'd never stop extending your finger to meet perfection

Like that nude hunk in _The Creation of Adam _up on the Sistine Chapel ceiling,

Because as the poet says, "to err is human" and you can't err if you're not striving for perfection.

His beauty and perfection all sharpened into a blade, hacking me to pieces.

Surely he's not aware of it.

Silky hair mussed up, ethereal eyes downcast,

Come dribbling from the corner of his mouth and trickling down his thigh,

He's an unholy angel sent from hell to torture me with furious love.

But I have my own way of coping.

I write it struggling, I read it coping.

If my eyes are watering over the pain of rejection it's because of the Bond.

I'm an alpha. I'm not that vulnerable.

I.. could just get into his head again and mess around a bit,

But I've tried mindfucking before and he didn't receive it so well.

So I do what I can, I massage his sore muscles

Until he's as pliant as a cat asking for a caress.

"You haven't eaten anything so far," I say.

And he blushes, because he's aware that he's just _eaten_.

"Let me get something for us, hmm? How long has it been since your last breakfast in bed?"

I pinch his nape lightly, pressing the pulse point there. He sighs contentedly despite his cold eyes.

I slide into my briefs.

Out of his bed memories of the first night of his heat come crashing down on me.

He tricked me, my Draco, the sweet scheming Slytherin--

I don't know how he did it but you tell me if it wasn't fucking well-timed. Smart slut, my bitch omega.

I'm angrily impressed. It's possible, you know. Angry and impressed at the same time.

People just don't want to admit they're impressed when they're angry, so they came up with this

Convenient word spelled "jealous".

Oh, that applies to me. Fuck.

Fine, I'm jealous.

I'm jealous that he's gone out of his way to formulate this bloody brilliant scheme with Zabini.

_With Zabini._ Fucking hell.

Maybe I should come up with a punishment to nail into his head my eternal love that eclipses

What little teaspoon of affection Zabini can manage out of his twiggy legs.

I feel the prickle of Draco's gaze on my thighs as I step out of our musky room.

At least he likes what he sees.

My Draco loves his turkey legs and Harry thighs.

==========

Outside, it's Steve.

He must have returned some time yesterday when we were fucking the whole day.

He's eating cheese and crackers, watching a _Merlin _show mute.

Plus point. He's considerate to Draco.

He drops a cracker when he sees me.

There's fear in his eyes, but more curiosity.

I'm not surprised. I tried to kill him just two nights ago.

Although I wasn't exactly in my right mind.

Knowing magic exists is a childhood fantasy come true.

Hell, some people can't be free from the fantasy till they die.

Steve's one of those people living the fantasy.

Whenever I visit he would have an episode of _Merlin _or _True Blood _on.

Plenty of guts in him to have returned here, I'll give him that.

I scratch my balls and yawn loudly.

Draco's flat is my flat and my house is Draco's house,

So it's not impolite if I just trot to the fridge and fish for what I need,

Although I sense Steve's eyeing me critically.

Three eggs and some milk. Peeled onions and raw slices of chicken breast.

Draco's been practicing, I can tell, he has mushrooms and eggplants and pumpkin,

And... is that beef _tendon_?

I turn roughly to Steve, and he flinches, dropping his second cracker.

"What?" he says timidly.

"Draco's stocked up on all these ingredients," I answer.

"...so what?" the dunce replies.

"You had Draco's cooking, then! Every single day!"

"You've known that forever, why bring it up now," he says. It's annoying.

"Forget it," I say. I might get dumber just for trying.

I quarter an onion and crush a piece.

Sprinkle pepper and salt over the paste, pour it all into a bowl.

Crack the eggs on the rim of the bowl and beat the eggs.

I grill a slice of chicken breast in a pan rare, and cut it into tiny blocks that I toss into the egg bowl.

I add half a cup of water and cook it in a steamer.

Draco can't eat much right now so he needs something he can digest well.

Something he can swallow without chewing much.

Something warm that melts in his mouth.

Like steamed egg custard and honeyed milk.

I draw a cup of coffee and lean on the counter,

Waiting for the egg to be done.

"So... you guys are all wizards," says Steve.

"Hermione didn't Obliviate you?" 

"What?"

Sigh.

"Hermione didn't make you forget?"

"The girl with the afro?"

"It's not an afro, idiot. She just has curly, bushy hair."

"Whatever. The girl who sounds like she's narrating the Discovery channel."

I let out a laugh spontaneously despite the gravity of the topic. "Yeah, Hermione."

"She said she's not doing the hocus-pocus to respect Draco's wish," Steve says. "Apparently Draco told her not to wipe my mind."

"Normally we erase your memories when something like this happens."

Steve shudders. "I heard. That's... like fiction. I thought you guys were all fairy tales..."

"I thought so too, until I turned eleven," I tell him. "I talked to a snake and blew up a mean aunt like a balloon."

"Macabre," says Steve. "Funny, but... scary. That night, when you, uh, blew up the bin, Hermione told me I could have died."

"Yes, so you should fall before her feet and worship her. She saved you."

"She explained why it happened, that you didn't mean to, but... hey, no apologies?" Steve says, brows scrunched.

Time to get priorities straight. Show him what's what.

I Levitate a jar of honey and a spoon wandlessly.

Steve watches like an eight-year-old watching Marvel in the cinema.

With the flick of my wrist the spoon scoops the honey and flies into Steve's gaping mouth.

Oh, I feel powerful. In a jolly good way.

Can't antagonise this one, though. Draco loves this one like he's sprogged him.

It's different again from Zabini and Parkinson,

And a thought tells me I'll lose Draco forever if I touch Steve.

"Say what, how about I tell you a story as an apology."

I conjure up three balls of Lumos on my palm--red, green, and blue--and Charm them into glittering fairies.

Steve turns the telly off, and I take it as an affirmative.

"I assume Hermione told you everything about alphas and omegas," I say.

"Not everything," he replies after finally swallowing the huge spoon of honey. "I just know it's a magic marriage. Her husband, Ronald?-- he said it's _magic marriage_. Hermione went straight to bed after that, she said she was tired. Because of you. Ronald's a chill guy, isn't he-- he offered me this very nice whisky and let me sleep on their couch."

Fuck. Gotta apologise to them later.

"That sounds like Ron all right. I'll tell you the full story, then, with the magic shows. You'll want to know because Draco is an omega."

"I'm all ears," Steve says, turning lights off and drawing curtains close.

I snap my fingers, and the fairies begin their tale.

==========

_Once upon a time,_

_When day and night were as one,_

_When the sun and the moon hung together in the sky,_

_When stars were still in their infancy--_

_ There lived two wizards and a witch._

_The three were loyal friends,_

_And the witch was married to a wizard._

_They were so in love._

_Or, she thought so._

_For her husband was in love with his friend._

_Alas! He was already married._

_And it's bad luck for a man to love a man._

_So, he buried his love deep in his heart,_

_And forgot all about it._

_However, the witch _ _found out her husband's secret:_

_Day after day, her husband grew weaker,_

_Calling his friend's name in his sleep._

_The husband cried of a pining heart,_

_The wife cried of a broken heart._

_The husband, being of noble heart,_

_Could not betray his wife,_

_And so pining,_

_His heart shriveled up,_

_And thus he died,_

_His soul flying to the cradle of stars above._

_The witch, strong in her love,_

_Went to her husband's friend,_

_Told the story of her beloved's death._

_Under the moonlit sky,_

_They both cried,_

_Grieving their friend and husband._

_While they were grieving,_

_Under the moonlit sky,_

_Under a moonlit cliff,_

_A pair of wolves howled,_

_Singing their love to the moon on high._

_Now the remaining wizard told the witch:_

_"Let us learn from those wolves,_

_True in Love and True in Union,_

_And bind ourselves in an Everlasting Pact._

_Let us unite in memory of our friend,_

_That henceforth,_

_Our descendants suffer no lost love,_

_That men may unite with men_

_And women may unite with women._

_Let us forge a Bond that Binds,_

_That all those born into Magic_

_Are born_

_True in Love and True in Union."_

_The witch, having heard the words,_

_Rose to the moonlit cliff,_

_And harvested the hearts_

_Of the two wolves._

_The wizard was given the alpha's heart,_

_While the witch tore into the still-beating heart_

_Of the alpha's Mate._

_Together, they chanted a spell_

_For three days and three nights,_

_Until the wolven hearts m_ _elted into them,_

_Their souls wolven, t_ _heir Bond wolven,_

_To last unbroken for them_

_And henceforth for their descendants_

_Until such day Magic fades from the world._

==========

Another _snap_, and the fairies puff into smoke.

Steve sits amazed.

"Wow. Just... wow," he says.

"Was that an apology enough?" I ask.

"Sure, uh, yeah... I mean, _wow. _You guys are like from, from Disney!"

I check the steamer and the egg's done.

I heat up the milk, add honey into it until it's light brown.

I load everything on a tray to bring to Draco.

I... I may have cut the performance short, I confess.

Because, nobody wants a bad ending, do they?

Nobody needs to hear lies.

I mean, the world is tough enough without such lies.

Lies like

_Alas, little did they know,_

_That Magic cannot create True Love._

==========

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wolves don't mate for life


	29. Secrets

What had been a beautiful pan of the restaurant's main course is now a pan full of vomit because Draco was ambushed by his own rebelling stomach. He had done so well, he had managed to swallow back the acidic liquid filling his mouth at the sight of meat. The funny thing, Draco thinks, was that raw meat looked just fine. He had no problem cutting meat from bone, droplets of residual blood quickly thinning in the rivulet of tap water on stainless sink. The pink, uncooked pork had felt squishy in his hands and greased his fingers. He had no problem when he folded onions, cheese, and potato in the milk bowl, salted and peppered. He had even appreciated the mouth-watering fragrance of the baking pork casserole.

He had a problem, though, when he and Mel began arranging the casserole, topping it with cherry tomatoes and parsley leaves.

Ironically, the sight of cooked meat had shaken his insides so much that the undigested contents of his stomach sprayed on the food before Draco could withdraw to the safety of the toilet stall.

Mel jumps back in disgust but soon directs a worried look at Draco. Some three seconds later a colleague wearing a pair of rubber gloves removes the casserole pan and dumps its contents into the food waste bin. Draco himself hurries to wipe the counter and mop the floor, a trail of _sorry-_s on his tongue. Draco answers Mel's questioning eyes with a whispered "I'm fine."

The small restaurant doesn't have a head chef, and only three chefs are responsible for the kitchen. Sunday mornings, they'd discuss the menu two weeks ahead to experiment, upload it to their homepage. His first day at work after vacation, Draco found that this week's concept is home-style food. An enthusiastic frequenter--_a food columnist, guys, a columnist! _said the manager--had been looking forward to the pork casserole, making a reservation on Sunday evening. And now, the plan is flushed spectacularly down the drain along with Draco's vomit.

Alerted to what's happened, the manager comes rushing into the kitchen, face ashen. Steve is on his tail. It's his day off college.

"Draco! You alright?" asks Steve, but he is promptly silenced by the manager's stern glare.

"Have I mentioned," says the manager, "that this is a _food writer _coming?" His nose twitches from the funny smell.

Draco is at a loss for words. They have contingency plans for something this big, he should explain they can prepare again, but his tongue is frozen in his mouth. He's not sure he can cook again, much less continue working today. That means he'll be leaving the kitchen undermanned. Without prior notice. He's even less sure whether he can keep his job.

His colleagues come to his rescue. "We have another pan but it's not ready to serve," says Mel. "It'll need at least another forty minutes in the oven even if we start now."

"Forty minutes... shit," The manager hisses. "I'll see what I can do." He stomps out of the kitchen without sparing a single word to Draco.

"Why don't you leave early," says Steve carefully after the manager's gone. "You shouldn't have come to work so soon after--"

"Steve, I am amazed at your inability to keep your big mouth shut," Draco retorts sharply, turning to see if his other colleagues overheard. They are busy, so he regrets it the second the words leave him. They wouldn't have known even if they heard it, but in his agitation Draco spoke without thinking. "I'm sorry, I just... Jesus."

"You're okay," replies Steve, "I understand." Draco is thankful to see that Steve's expression is all concern without a trace of hurt. "Gotta go back to the hall, but you get your arse home, yeah?"

Through the pick-up counter, Draco sees the manager bowing and talking to the journalist with an aura of complete remorse. The journalist makes a face, lifting his shirt sleeve and checking his watch rather exaggeratedly. His companion, a lady in specs, taps her fingers on the table and pours a generous glass of water before drinking it in an equally dramatic show of displeasure. 

Draco wishes he still had his wand. He'd just cast a nonverbal Confundus and be done with it, everyone happy.

Mel approaches him with a bottle of kitchen cleaner in her hands. "Hey, Draco," she says, "You shouldn't be here right now. It's not a lot of work, and... you look unwell. So, uh... you get me?"

Draco gets her. Health and hygiene. Not his own, but the kitchen's. And the food's. She must be thinking he's ill.

"Of course," he replies. "I should go home. Thanks and sorry again."

Mel winks and returns to her task.

==========

Outside, down the next block, Draco hastily enters a close and retches again when he thinks of the dinner at Palazzo Zabini. He's not feverish, in fact, his condition was in top form when he came to work this morning. He had a full day's rest after his controlled heat began subsiding, and he remembers, he had eaten Potter's atrocious egg custard and chicken without the slightest feeling of nausea. He can actually relive it just fine. But when his thoughts move on to images of other meat cooked and served in perfection, he finds his stomach rolling again as if a hurricane had struck.

And to make matters worse, a soft _crack _echoes behind him. Draco doesn't have to look to know who it is. It happens so often that it's like breathing. The instantaneous comfort, the feeling of coming home, warm and protective like the forgotten memory of a mother's womb that every poet endeavours to recapture but ultimately fails.

It's Potter as usual, dogging him. Draco doesn't care anymore how Potter finds him. His guesses range from Tracking Spells to some undue, totally undue influence of the Bond, but he doesn't care anymore. Standing up against Potter is standing under a waterfall. Avoiding Potter is avoiding his own shadow. Draco is now used to Potter's meddling like it's the annoying bark of another stray mutt in the neighbourhood. Draco quietens the incessant dissonance in his heart that tells him quite eloquently, _not meddling, not annoying, and a big bad wolf than a stray mutt._

"You're ill," Harry says, patting Draco's back as he retches some more. "Let's go see a Healer."

Draco shakes Harry's hand off. "Unnecessary, Potter. I know exactly what the problem is. I'm as healthy as you are. Physically, I mean. Not mentally, no, or I'd have gone to the Healer myself before you even offered. I'm far above you in terms of mental health."

Harry ignores the smart mouth and sighs. "Don't be stubborn. You're not making any sense. You say you know there's a problem and then you say you're healthy. I won't have you ill on my watch. Look at you, you barely have meat on you."

The word 'meat' wrings a hysterical outburst from Draco, who breaks down into a blubbering, incoherent mess.

"You won't have me ill? Why, bad fuck? You'd rather have me clean, is that it? No go, I'm a fucking Death Eater, like you always say! Death Eater, Literally! Death Eater, Potter, Death Eater, literally, literally, in the flesh, all meat! Why not a Meat Eater? Meats are all dead! I'm a failure, and it's all because of you, I --"

When Draco's loud sobs lure some curious Muggles, Harry huffs angrily and casts Repello Muggletum and Silencio around them. Their eyes widen as if they remembered some very important appointments, and they all disperse one by one.

Harry gathers Draco in his arms and cages him against a wall. He peppers his Mate's forehead with kisses and flashes a jubilant grin that Draco cannot see because he's tucked under Harry's chin.

Draco fists Harry's clothes and pulls like a vengeful man holding on to his bone to pick.

"Oh, baby," says Harry, still smiling, "What's bothering you? Tell me. I'll make it all better."

Draco swallows a sob and shakes his head. He does not say anything, but his eyes burn with an angry confusion that seems to say, _it's all your fault!_

"Draco," Harry says, "Tell me, please. We're one life, what kills you will kill me too, remember? If you're a Death Eater, I'm a Death Eater too. You're all right, we're one and the same."

And with that, for the first time in a long while, Harry breaks his promise and enters Draco's troubled mind without asking. He scours the meaty secrets hanging undigested in the back of Draco's throat--_Corban Yaxley, Dark Arts, Controlled Heat, Alpha Meat..._

Draco's anger shrivels into fear when he feels Harry's mind touching his own yet again. Like bodies that have distinct odours and colours, Legilimency feels different for each person, and Draco knows how Potter's Legilimency feels. If he's mad while doing it, Potter would pry his head open, giving him migraines. Or he'd simply fit into his mind like he's always been there. Either way, Potter's mind always leaves a festering, unctuous trail of slime wherever it touches. Draco shudders involuntarily as Potter's mind leaves, slippery through the chinks in Draco's powerless Occlumency.

"Oh, Draco," Potter whispers, clasping a hand on Draco's waist. "So you're right... you're not ill. I thought you were delirious just now, but no... you really did eat Yaxley! Yaxley was a bad man, and Helene tricked you. Well, you did it for Zabini, didn't you, maybe you told yourself that quicker than you could say Potter, but after our heart-to-heart, honey, I'm so glad to see you aren't misguided. The truth is you did it to gain power over me! I knew I was at the centre of everything you do. Fuck, you felt powerful when we made love, and you liked it! That's such a turn on, Draco. I think this is the second cutest thing you've done since you got Transfigured into a ferret."

Harry's fingers draw soothing circles on Draco's neck. "I think I'll go have a talk with that manager of yours, though. I didn't like him ignoring you when you weren't feeling good. The fuck was Steve doing, he should've backed you, the prat... I never liked you working there, you deserve better. You're mine, people should treat you with more respect." Harry growls possessively.

He Disapparates with a _crack_.

For a moment Draco stands very still, processing what he heard.

And then he scrambles to his feet, running as fast and hard as he can back to the restaurant. He can't Apparate without a wand. He can only hope his voice carries over as he shouts at the top of his voice, "Potter, no!"

==========


	30. Flowers

**Draco**

You'd think with magic you'd be living the life.

Not an unusual idea in the Muggle World.

If Father was alive, he'd be surprised (although I know he'll simply glare)

At the amount of movies and books about us.

Wizards and Witches and Wands and Werecreatures.

But it'd be trouble if they found out.

You know the story, the Boy Who Cried Wolf?

There were Muggles like that in history.

Those Who Cry Wolf, but never get taken seriously.

They do it for fun--until it turns out to be real.

Only an infinitesimally small proportion of people in history

Discover.

But these--_magic movies--_they lack accuracy for all their imagination.

You see, the fact is there are wizards who don't enjoy magic.

Those who are afraid of magic.

Yes, they do exist!

You'd never have guessed, yes?

Fear of Magic.

There are Wizards and Witches

Who are so afraid of magic

They can't live magically normal lives.

Some of the more extreme ones become voluntary Squibs.

They can _do_ magic, oh they can,

I bet some of them even have the potential to rise as

The greatest magicians of our age.

But the thing is, they're afraid.

The causes? Many. But let's take three.

Accidents happen in life.

A Potions explosion, a Charm gone wrong--

People die, but those who survive develop a fear of magic

That cripples them. There's our first. Accidents.

And then, some are like that from birth.

Genetics, the omnipotent force that makes you do silly things and ask silly questions.

Like Pansy trying to lower the bridge of her nose.

She does it each time but it keeps reverting.

Or like Father. Who had no idea how some Muggleborns had more magic than us Purebloods.

There are Wizards who have been carrying fear about who they are

Since they popped out from their mother's parts. There's our second. Genes.

Last but not the least, are the most unfortunate.

Of course, since I've made it this dramatic, you'd follow.

There are those, who at some point of their lives,

Find themselves cornered by wands.

A father's wand on a son.

A wife's wand on a husband.

A daughter's wand on her mother.

A schoolboy's wand on his enemy.

A professor's wand on her student.

A Dark Lord's wand on a Death Eater.

Or a Death Eater's wand on a Mudblood. They never stop troubling me with this one.

Fine. _Muggleborn_. But you gotta be in my shoes once in a while. It's not fair. That bloody cunt Granger never stops asking about "Harry" when she should know better, the sanctimonious bitch. Sometimes I wonder if she really gets I'm a _rape _victim. _Let bygones be bygones, welcome to the family, Draco! _I bet that's what she'd like to say, the words that tickle her know-it-all tongue. By the way, the way her tongue turns and jumps when she speaks, I'm sure that absolutely clicks with Weasel during their nocturnal activities. Not that I want to keep the picture in my mind, Salazar, no.

But even Granger can't say that to my face because she _knows_ what Potter's done to me. Full and graphic.

Alright. I exaggerated a bit. She's not that bad. But the fucking problem is, she means well. That's what makes it all even worse. My heart hurts--oh, I sound like one of those Hufflepuff teenagers, I'm well aware, but for the sake of my point let us continue--my heart clenches whenever she brings up that infernal question, "How are things with Harry?". Thing are not fucking okay with Harry! How am I supposed to answer that! What am I supposed to say when there are ten different versions of me driving me insane about him? One of me screams rape, the other screams love, another shrieks murder, and fear and hope and trust and suspicion--and the Bond on top of that--

This isn't the turkey to carve on this table, so allow me to return to--where was it? Fear of Magic.

An Alpha's wand on an Omega.

And Potter's magic in my fucked-up life.

Here's our third: people like Draco Malfoy.

But thank Salazar I'm born with natural perseverance and survival instincts.

It seems Potter's magic in my fucked-up life isn't enough to drive me into a phobia. But I'm well on the way.

I'm afraid because I know so bloody well what Potter is capable of.

My hands still shake although I'm sprinting.

I hope he doesn't torture the manager. He's a good Muggle. The man doesn't deserve it.

I wish Potter would stop butting in my life and drive people away.

I pass by a florist's on the road.

Flowers, cut at the roots.

They remind me of myself.

No, not the flowers.

I'm not so soppy to compare myself to flowers.

I merely...

I don't like the idea of decorative flowers.

Cut at the roots to be immobile and sustained by a wet sponge.

Like me.

==========

**Harry**

It's hard choosing between a Cruciatus and an Imperius,

I could make Draco's manager suffer on the ground

Like the lab mice they test Cruciatus on down in the Department of Mysteries,

Or should I just _Imperio _him, make him strip and dance on the restaurant floor?

So many possibilities.

But guess Draco wouldn't like it if I did a real damage.

He gotta man up. I know he's an omega but he's too soft.

Come to think of it, he's always been naive inside, perhaps.

His wand core was unicorn hair, wasn't it, my lovely Draco.

He'd wanted to be a powerful wizard, but didn't get the dragon heartstring.

He'd wanted to be a special wizard, but didn't get the phoenix feather.

He got a unicorn hair.

It's so cute it makes me smile.

Symbol of naivete and innocence, hidden behind thorns of the Hawthorn.

But that's not the end of the story.

You know what, everything from a Hawthorn is edible.

By that I mean everything.

Hawthorn fruits are sweet, sweet like my darling.

Hawthorn leaves are brilliant for salad.

Hawthorn wood is boiled for Potions.

And it's also good to look at in the garden!

Hawthorn and unicorn hair--that's my baby Draco in a nutshell.

And as for this man,

_Ah._

I'll just help Draco repay him.

Easy as pie. I know just the thing.

I enter the restaurant and a waitress opens the door.

Steve sees me. Can't hide the surprise.

I don't grace him with a smile.

I frown. He ought to know I'm not in the least bit happy how Draco's treated.

Draco's manager approaches.

Oh, I'm already starting to hate his gelled up hair and the shiny loafers.

I mean, don't we all hate how _perfect _things are?

Isn't it normal to want to put a crack on the china,

Ink on the white shirt,

Kiss on the Draco?

Well, that's different. I'm making an imperfect thing perfect when I kiss Draco. Yeah.

Don't let this make you doubt that Draco's anything less than perfect.

Yeah, it's a bit hard to understand. He's both imperfect and perfect.

That's only because Draco is on the top of the long list of "World's Self-contradictory People".

Perfection and imperfection.

Innocence and resourcefulness.

Kindness and viciousness.

Love and...

Let's stop there. I get goosebumps on my arms around that topic.

Draco loves me, full stop.

I place an order.

An honest simple plate of steak.

Nothing too fancy like I usually do when Draco's around.

That's because I like having Draco putting an effort for me. I say "putting an effort" because that's better than

"Having Draco working for me".

That's not enough.

I want Draco to _put in an effort _for me.

For me.

Oh, there he is, I can see my lovely Draco just about to come in.

He's inside now. He's just standing there, watching me.

The steak's on my table,

Nowadays I'm trying my hand in the Dark Arts.

Wait, that's a lie.

It's been a while since I started practicing the Dark Arts.

My little trick with those blood vials for Zabini.

I'm not an Auror anymore so it's fine.

I don't need a wand and they can't do a _Prior Incantato_ on my hands.

I reckon I'm above Voldemort.

Mr Snake-Nose couldn't cast a Dark Charm without a wand, could he.

I can. Yeah, take that, Voldie!

As a clueless Hogwarts student I used to think it's all black and white,

Dark Arts and the Defence,

But that isn't exactly the way things work in the world, is it.

You need lube for everything in the world.

Car engines, cleaning, fucking and fapping.

It's only normal you need lube for magic too.

Dark Arts is just like that.

It speeds up things a little and produces the desired effect

Far better than magic in general.

It _always _demands a payment, though.

That was what Voldie overlooked.

Payment.

And I'm the expert on the Law of Payment!

Yes, all other losers on this God's green earth

Lose because they are ignorant.

Lose because they do not pay.

Dark Wizards, they lose in the end because they do not pay!

Everything is fine if you know enough to pay.

There's a vase of flowers on the table.

With my left hand I grab them around the stem.

It's okay.

They're almost dead anyway.

Once, I brought a bouquet for my sweet Draco

When we were living underwater.

And he threw it on my face.

He told me I mutilated the flowers.

Yeah. That's what these Muggles had done.

They mutilated the flowers.

You know what makes me laugh?

These _good citizens_,

These _law-abiding people,_

Come into this restaurant and

Smile, watching the mutilated flowers kept alive in a vase.

Would they smile if I cut their legs and keep them alive in a pool of blood?

Maybe I should do that to Zabini.

He's a vampire now, so cutting his legs wouldn't kill him.

So maybe up on the knees.

Or, just cut his waist and put him in a pool of blood.

Oh no, wait, can't do that--

I've worked so hard to be where I am with Draco now, getting to Zabini would ruin everything.

See what I mean? About the Dark Arts?

It's feeding on my mind because I haven't paid something to appease it.

I work my left hand and the flowers begin to wilt.

The Dark Magic in me sucks what little remains of their life force.

Dark Magic always requires a sacrifice. Payment complete.

With my right, I cast a wandless Dark Charm.

Putrefaction Curse.

Bloated maggots form on the steak.

My clever Draco makes his way to me, face all white.

_What in Merlin's name are you doing, Potter,_ he says.

I just wink.

I make a show of disgust, bellowing for the manager.

Guests all around look at me.

The manager returns.

I see the recognition in his eyes when he sees Draco.

"Is this what you serve to your guests?" I yell. Loudly, so other guests can hear it.

I push the maggot-full plate of steak under the manager's nose.

It's starting to smell.

He can't answer.

Of course he can't.

He brought the steak here himself.

Now it's rotting, like magic, the stuff of nightmares!

It_ is_ magic. Not that he'd know, of course.

The manager reaches for it as if he has to touch it to make sure.

Touch it--

It may not kill you, but it'll leave you bedridden for weeks at least.

Draco whacks the manager's hand.

He snatches the plate and disappears to the kitchen.

I sit back on my chair and cross my arms.

The manager simpers and apologises.

"I burnt it all. No point in arguing now," Draco says to the manager when he returns.

"Draco! Back to the kitchen now! Mr Potter, I apologise on behalf of the staff for this inappropriate behaviour--"

Draco punches me while the manager's still speaking.

Fine, I underestimated my Mate.

He's an omega but he's still a man alright, I guess-- the force throws me off the chair.

A silence falls. People must be staring at us.

I realise Draco broke my nose when a salty, irony liquid drips into my open mouth.

"You _evil_ son of a bitch," he whispers, and it gets harder to swallow because his anger hurts me.

Sensing our fight, the Bond rings.

From the way he shakes his head, I know Draco feels it too.

Yeah, Draco, don't look at me like that.

Can't you feel the Bond tightening?

You're supposed to say sorry now.

I just wanted to avenge you.

This place isn't much of a job anyway.

See? He's firing you too.

The outraged manager breaks it to him. "Attacking a guest...! You're fired!"

I don't get my sorry from my baby.

Draco runs outside.

Steve follows him.

The manager's _I'm so sorry, Mr Potter _gets on my nerves.

His voice is the last thing I need, so I kick the table,

And rush out to find Draco.

==========

"Why, Potter, why can't you understand," Draco says, not looking at Harry.

"Yeah, Harry, back off, man," Steve chimes in hotly, although he has no clear picture on what has transpired.

Harry's fists ball. "I did it for you! He deserved it! That whole place did! You can do better than this, Draco. You promised me you'd live with me. Come with me to Grimmauld now. I'll have the house redecorated. I'll Extend the house into a palace if you'd like. You don't need to make money grovelling like some lowlife. You'll live like a king."

Draco turns and considers the restaurant across the street. "This was my first workplace in Muggle London," he says, swallowing a lump of sadness choking him. "I have fond memories. I liked working here, Potter. I wished to part on better terms and-- those are hard-working, diligent guys in there. They're all decent people. Some of us had dreams about this place. Today was our big day, food writers are trying out our food and everyone was excited. But you, you can't keep it in your pants, can you, Potter, you had to meddle yet again. Tell me, was the Curse supposed to kill him?"

A shocked Steve bristles and looks at Draco. "What?!"

"You go back to work," Harry hisses at Steve. He hisses more in pain and casts an Episkey on his nose. A _crack _later, the crooked nose heals and snaps back to the right structure.

"Yes, Steve, go back. I'll be fine, I'll tell you when we're home." Draco likes Steve's support, but prefers him at a safe distance from Harry. It takes several reassuring nods from Draco to get Steve going.

Draco asks Harry again when Steve's out of sight. "Did you or did you not mean to kill the manager?"

Harry scoffs. He sneers at Draco. He doesn't remember when was the last time he made that face at Draco. "That's how you see me? A murderer?"

"I see in you a lot of things, and I believe I'm justified in doing so."

"But not a Mate who loves you? It wasn't meant to kill him. Rot one of his fingers, make him sick, maybe, but not killing him. I'm hurt, Draco. You obviously don't see a husband in me."

"Of course not," Draco answers curtly, "we aren't married. And you haven't changed a bit, Potter. You're still every bit a twisted lunatic."

"I don't care," Harry says, teeth bared. "You're coming with me. You promised you'd come live with me after your vacation."

"Drag me if you must," says Draco. "There's no way I'm coming with you willingly. I did promise, but what you did today is more than enough to nullify it, I believe."

A sharp flash of Harry's eyes, and then Draco finds himself standing in the sitting room of Grimmauld Place.

"What..." he breathes, looking around him, portraits of the Black ancestors snoring lightly, a steady fire alive in the fireplace.

"You thought I couldn't meet your challenge?" Harry sneers. "Welcome home, Draco. This was your mother's home, too. I'm sure Narcissa would have approved."

Draco tries to slap Harry but he catches his wrist. "How dare you speak mother's name like that, Potter, it was your fault I didn't get to say goodbye--"

"I didn't kidnap you this time," Harry says, bringing Draco's wrist to his lips. "You promised you'd come. I just acted on it. So please, don't fight this."

Once again he is locked in Potter's hideout, in Potter's arms.

Over Potter's shoulder, Draco sees a vase of flowers,

Mutilated at the roots and tortured to wilt slowly,

Like himself.

==========


	31. Conditions

**Draco**

"Harry," Granger's voice echoes over the trill of her origami canary, "You blocked your Floo again. Is this because of what I think it is? Am I to assume the worst?"

Potter flicks his finger at the yellow paper bird and it blazes in the air. Ash falls on the carpet but Potter doesn't seem to give a shit. I gave up trying to rise when he pulled my head back to his lap for the sixth or seventh time. And I definitely didn't hum when Potter pressed my temple with just the right amount of pressure...

"I love Hermione, but she just doesn't get I have my privacy too," Potter says.

It makes me snort. "Joke's more than passable on you, you ignoramus, I could say the same to you."

Potter's hand stops somewhere behind my ear and I feel the tip of his fingers tensing. He sighs as if I told him the stupidest thing ever. "It's our privacy, sweetie."

"There's no _our_, Potter. There are _yours_ and _mine_. Must the trumpet sound before you could get it through your thick skull, or did the Dark Lord's Killing Curse do the job to the grey matter of your brains? You and I are two different people. You and I need different things. You and I have different thoughts."

"Well, _we_ is more efficient than _you and I_. It's shorter."

"It's not about semantics-- oh, why do I even bother with you."

Potter traces the bite mark on my neck and I clench my teeth. I don't want to let him know I feel like rubbing my nose on his ridiculous pullover.

"You're arching your neck," the boor tuts, "You wanna kiss?"

It's hard to tear myself away but I manage. But I find myself right back where I was because Potter pulls me down again. This time, his hand wanders into my shirt. I grab his arms until he winces but his hands keep sneaking where they don't belong.

Potter's hand is always warm. He has too much body heat. It's something about his magic overflowing spontaneously. He can't stand summer.

Snow melts faster on his skin. How do I know?

Because Honeydukes ice mice stop squeaking faster in his hands. They never stop squeaking when I'm holding them. At least not until I bite their heads off.

Potter's temperature makes me sleepy. It's becoming hard to keep my eyes open, and the Bond is relaxing because it's been days since Potter held me with those arms...

I hear it, his idiotic chuckle. "Maybe I should help you form a Patronus. I'm sure it'll be a cat. Or a ferret."

Yes. I still don't have a Patronus and hearing him say it out loud drives the sleep away. I want to tell him no Patronus is better than reminding yourself you're a daddy's boy every time you summon a Patronus.

I choose not to. Mind you, it's not because I know he hates it when I insult him about his parents. It's because I'm too tired and sleepy to start an argument. Fighting Potter is an ugly business. He hates losing as much as he hates me joking about his mother. Potter's childish that way. He doesn't understand it's not always about winning or losing. He always has to have the upper hand.

Always.

Ironic too, it used to be the other way around back in Hogwarts. Me being the sore loser anxious to win. But figures, I'm the expert on this subject; with a lifetime of losing you get tired of the whole notion of winning. And then you tend to understand _losing _in other words. Call it escapism, call me pigheaded--I'm not saying I don't admit defeat. I know when I'm defeated. It's Potter's victory through and through. 

Especially when any argument with him ends up with _I'm your Mate, we belong together_, and I can't argue with that because it's so fucking true. He made me his. Each day my wall cracks and some of him oozes into me. I realise I'm letting him in. I can't fight it. It's how it is.

I'm still thinking about the restaurant. That was so, so close, but at least I stopped Potter's sick Curse.

What does one do before an unstoppable force?

Prayer is for the desperate. I'm no longer desperate.

Fear is for the unprepared. I'm always prepared when it's Potter.

We've gone through so many trials and errors, Potter and I. We know our way around each other. Even Potter must know. He can't be _that _stupid. Isn't it his fucked-up goal in life to get me to be _his_?

The idiot doesn't get it. I'm already his, all things considered.

What does one do before an unstoppable Potter who doesn't get it?

Drive it in to him.

As for me, I must carve my own place here. If I must live here it won't be as a captive.

==========

**Harry**

Godric's beard. Not ten minutes after I Blast Mione's paper canary, an owl pecks my window.

Cursed letters can't pass through my wards.

If it's here, that means the letter's harmless.

And I like birds. The living ones, I mean. Owls the best, they never fail to remind me of Hedwig...

So I let it in.

And I regret my decision.

Because Draco uses the distraction to sit away from me.

And because the creature drops a _red _envelope on my lap.

Along with a huge fucking glob of shit.

Howler and bird shit.

Worst combination ever.

I slap its head and the owl nips my thumb. It fucking hurts.

"It's Pansy's owl," chirps Draco.

The bird coos, _coos _at my Mate and covers his head with a wing.

Draco has a delicate sense and he doesn't want Parkinson's Howler shocking him.

I know he's received many after the War and he doesn't like it.

So that's what I tell him.

"We don't need the sow's shrieks tearing our eardrums. I'll Vanish it."

Sometimes my baby is too stubborn for his own good.

"That's my _friend _you're calling a sow, Potter," he says.

What's wrong with saying the truth?

She's got a horrible personality and she tried to sell me to Voldemort,

And look how that turned out for her.

With that nose it's a wonder Parkinson's Patronus isn't a pig.

Oh wait, I don't even know if she can summon a Patronus.

I tell Draco Parkinson has a pig's nose and that she's a malevolent Death Eater, unfit to be his friend.

The owl flaps its wings madly.

Draco glares. He tells me to shut up.

"And you can't Vanish a Howler, Potter," he says.

My sweetie is clever but sometimes he's so slow.

I wonder if in that split second before it announced _Slytherin _the Sorting Hat whispered a Hufflepuff to him.

"I can," I tell him. "Here, look."

He stops me.

He holds my hands and gazes into me.

His eyes are so mesmerising, how can a person have _silver _eyes,

I'm proud and glad for a hundred times over I Marked him.

It would've been so much more charming if he smiled,

But fuck my life, he's frowning.

"Don't," he says, "I want to hear it. She's my friend and I deserve to know."

Yeah, his Patronus is for sure a cat or a ferret.

Maybe a fox.

He's so good at distracting me.

He reaches for the red envelope on my lap.

"Let me open that Howler and I'll hold your hand for the rest of the evening," he says.

Don't blame me if I have to _personally _hand him the Howler.

You don't know what it's like to have your Mate willing.

It's...

Sunlight.

Yeah. That's it.

Sunlight.

When Draco plucks the wax seal off the envelope,

It begins to shriek in Parkinson's voice.

**POTTER!**

**DRACO HASN'T WRITTEN BACK FOR DAYS, YOU AND NO ONE BUT YOU ARE THE CULPRIT!**

**HOW DARE YOU ABDUCT DRACO AGAIN AFTER ALL THAT'S HAPPENED!**

**GIVE DRACO BACK, HALF-BLOOD SPAWN, OR I WILL CALL AURORS EVEN IF I HAVE TO SELL HALF OF MY HOTELS FOR THAT!**

"Don't tell me she really believes she's gonna win against a Mating Bond and _me,_" I say.

Draco smiles. It's not a sneer as usual. "And don't tell me you didn't know this was going to happen the instant I came here."

Of course I knew.

I just don't give a damn about Parkinson.

I tell Draco exactly that.

"Perhaps you should," he replies, "Who knows I'll be more this way inclined if you're nice to my friends?"

Not a chance.

"Parkinson tried to hand me to Voldemort on a silver platter! You were there! I'm your Mate!"

"So? Haven't I opened the door into Hogwarts for the Dark Lord? You claimed me as yours. And you succeeded."

"Well, that's different! Voldemort threatened you and you were brainwashed by your parents!"

"What would you know about parents anyway," Draco says, and this time he sneers.

His sneer's like Umbridge's blood quill sometimes.

It drives me fucking crazy.

He's the only person in this world who can do that to me.

It's not right!

I have to show him what's right.

That I'm his alpha and he should obey me.

He kicks me when I pin him to the wall.

He always refuses me unless he's in heat.

It drives me even crazier.

Why must he refuse me all the time?

Why can't we be happy like all the other Mated pairs out there? 

==========

"I promised you I'd hold your hand, Potter, don't ruin it," Draco says. He locks his fingers with Harry's. "I'm right here. Despite the fact you've taken my job and... things."

"What things," Harry whispers. When he doesn't get an answer, he yells, "What things!"

Draco flinches a little but asks back, "What do you think?"

Harry slams a fist into the wall next to Draco's head. "I think you really mean Zabini," he says, working his own anger up. "Say it! It's about Zabini, isn't it!"

"Among other things. My freedom. I used to blame you for my chances at Hogwarts too but I'm over that... also my goodbye to Mother, do you remember? St. Mungo's?" Draco's voice cracks. He takes a moment to even his tone. "I have so many reasons to hate you and yet I'm here."

"That's because I'm keeping you here!"

"I haven't tried to leave, have I."

"You plotted with Helene Zabini to control your heat," Harry points out, bearing down on Draco. Draco has to bend his neck backward to look up at Harry. "Hell, I must be the world's most pathetic alpha... Ha! Even Zacharias Smith's omega fawns over that dunce, you know? First my omega fucks another alpha in his heat, and now he plots with the mother against me!"

"Is that what this is about? So you were mad at me since you looked into my mind? It isn't about vindicating me, it's all about your anger? Is that why you caused that scene at my work? Revenge?"

"No!" Harry roars, "I'm your Mate, nothing you do can push me there."

"For Salazar's sake then, why, Potter?"

Harry shakes his head. "I don't know."

Draco's posture deflates like a three-day-old balloon. "You don't know?"

"I just want to be the one person that matters the most to you."

A silence lasts for a whole minute between them. Draco is blinking, incredulous, and Harry is busy admiring Draco's scent.

"But you already are my Mate," says Draco, "What more could you possibly want."

"Do you love me?"

"I already told you I can't answer that, it's not that simple--"

"Draco," Harry's voice shakes desperately. "Please."

"...I don't love you, _half-blood_," The verdict is delivered with a tone of finality, and Harry's hand falls from the wall. His nose flushes and his eyes are watering. It isn't the first time Draco's told him that, but it's never borne that certainty. The tremulus of Harry's hand betrays his anguish. When he brings it to Draco's cheek, it's not to strike his cruel Mate, but to make sure he still can touch Draco, to make sure Draco's still there with him. Wrenching open his inside and offering it to Draco in supplication.

With a careful touch of his thumb, Draco rubs Harry's fingers. The tender but determined gesture stitches back Harry's disemboweled soul.

"That," Draco says, fixing his attention to Harry's stubble, "Doesn't mean I can't love you. I'm willing to give it a go."

"Mm," is all Harry can manage. A hurried little voice in the back of his skull tells him he must not let the omega boss him around his little finger, but Harry is too occupied to acknowledge the call of his other selves.

"It's not free, you should know," Draco's hand waltzes on Harry's chest. "Everything in life is give and take. I will not be accused."

"If I like the conditions," replies Harry.

Draco lowers his gaze. "I have no idea about that. But this is the only chance you--and I--have. Take it for my sake if not yours."

==========


	32. A Note to Readers

* * *

Dear Readers:

I apologise for disturbing your immersive experience by writing this letter between chapters.

Fic writers offer their works freely to everyone. Fic writers sustain the popularity of the canon by writing fanfics. Fic writers do not make any income from fanfics. All we-- I --ask for is that the fanfic is enjoyed here on the platform of my choosing. In my case, I write only on **Archive Of Our Own (AO3). **But unfortunately, transformative works of fanfic writers are often unprotected.

A reader informed me recently that a Wattpad user by the name of

**I_Gonna_Rage_Quit**

Has been reposting this fic series. She also reposted other AO3 writers' works under her name, as if she wrote them herself. Without permission, without credit. A lot of work and planning went into this series and I am hurt very much that someone dares to copy it without guilt or care. I squeeze in time for fics between college and work.

**Please, enjoy this fic on Archive Of Our Own (AO3) only.**

**UPDATE: The plagiarist has now deleted her account or Wattpad has finally done its job by receiving the reports and banning her.**

* * *

**P.S. This story, "Waiting II", will resume normally starting next chapter, to be uploaded within the week.**

* * *


	33. Tightrope and Babies

* * *

They are interrupted by Kreacher.

"Master Harry, Mr Blaise Zabini is wanting to see you."

_After Howlers and owl dropping, now it's Zabini._

_Perfect. What's this, some kind of Muggle sitcom?_

_Is Grimmauld Place now the neighbourhood pub?_

Harry looks at Draco accusingly.

"It's not me," Draco says.

Harry gazes at Draco accusingly still.

"It's not me," Draco repeats. "Honestly. I didn't have the time to tell him."

Harry searches Draco accusingly, intently.

"You're the one who brought me here, there was hardly any time for me to alert Blaise. You can do your Legilimency if you don't believe me... Perhaps he's here for his meal."

Draco fidgets, nervous jaw twitching.

"Will Master Harry be seeing Mr Zabini?" croaks Kreacher.

Years have passed since he had led Hogwarts house-elves during the War,

But he still cannot hide the excitement of expecting a Pureblood guest.

"House Zabini is a respectable Pureblood family, it is," the old elf mutters.

"An honour it is, yes, old Kreacher misses serving proper Pureblood wizards, oh yes Kreacher does..."

Harry sneers.

It's a sneer he had picked up from Draco.

"Yeah, so properly pure I'd wager the impure air we have here's gonna fuck them up, those inbreds."

Kreacher's deflated tennis-ball eyes dart from Harry to Draco.

Harry follows Kreacher's gaze to find Draco's pointy, offended chin.

"That wasn't about you, Draco. You're different. Your pure is... yeah, all nice and good. Look, Ron's a Pureblood, alright?"

"Let me enlighten you, Potter," Draco begins coldly, "Up there, up there somewhere weaved in your tapestry, is a proof we're related. Your grandparents were Purebloods. Do you understand what that means? It means you and I are _related_. Blaise and I are related even closer than we are. Remember that the next time you shag your inbred Pureblood."

The temperature of the room must have dropped a degree or two because Harry feels his face heating with conscious embarassment.

This isn't how Harry plans to receive the unwelcome guest.

He wants Zabini to see Draco at home here.

"Fine. I'm sorry. It just kind of, I spoke out of turn."

"You sound like you're speaking in Parseltongue. Tone's too lippy for that to be an apology."

"Take it while I'm still willing to apologise," Harry says, roughly pulling Draco into his arms.

His ire shifts towards a contented grin when Draco doesn't shun his embrace.

"Should Kreacher be telling Mr Zabini to leave?" asks the elf.

"Show him in," replies Draco, "Serve us tea and an empty wineglass for Mr Zabini. It beats me why you haven't granted him free access here, Potter."

"Kreacher is glad Master Draco commands. Oh, poor Mistress Narcissa... how she'll smile if she knew the last Pureblood Black is back in Grimmauld Place... Oh yes, Master Draco is the only wizard fit to own this home. Master Harry doesn't know how fortunate he is... no, he doesn't..."

Harry raises an amused eyebrow. "I gotta say, I'm lucky to have Master Draco. Thank you, Kreacher."

The comment is met by Draco's snide remark, "Pity. Your four-leaf clover feels unlucky."

Harry's face falls.

Kreacher ignores Harry and gives Draco a fond look. "Master Draco does not feel it, but the bricks and roofs of this house are rejoicing, they are."

"I don't see anything out of the ordinary."

"Master Harry isn't a house-elf, no he isn't, Kreacher feels this house better than Master Harry's half-blood senses..."

"Just go and get Zabini."

Harry lets Kreacher off, knowing that the elf's insults no longer bear malice.

They're just habit.

A habit that Harry cannot change.

Kreacher has lived more than six-hundred years,

It took him six centuries and more,

Six centuries and more to be where he is now.

He can't change overnight.

To demand change would be cruelty in itself.

Harry had tried commands,

Sugar-coated threats,

Sweeter compliments,

Punishments,

Arguments--

Nothing worked.

Six-hundred years were too much

For even him to counter.

Kreacher's defences were six-hundred-year thick,

His excuses practised over tens of thousands of days

That made up those six centuries.

Not like Draco.

_Still as soft as fresh clay, _ponders Harry--

_Thinks he's tough, but no more so than clay._

_I can shape Draco_

_The power of time doesn't separate us_

_There are no six hundred years between us_

_Appears all feisty but so malleable too_

_A lump of clay waiting to be shaped_

_It's okay, two people in love shape each other_

_They say couples rub off on each other  
_

_The longer they are together._

* * *

A tray of teacups and empty glass floats behind Kreacher.

Draco sends Kreacher away. "Make yourself scarce."

Draco is desperate to do _something, _trapped in the tension.

He busies himself arranging cups, lifting and setting them down.

The clatters distract him from the open hostility between Harry and Blaise.

"Ran out already, Zabini?" jeers Harry, "Had to creep back here like a rat?"

Harry lifts Draco and places him on his lap.

He buries Draco into his chest possessively.

With a forceful hand he stops Draco from turning his head towards Zabini.

"Be still," he murmurs against Draco's neck.

He doesn't forget to lay a hand on the bite mark, caressing the pink, gleaming flesh there.

He knows exactly what it will do.

The action yields him a flux of pheromones from Draco.

Obedient and pliant, inviting even.

Draco shudders on Harry's lap as intense affection and helplessness

Clash inside him.

_Come to think of it, Potter's been nothing but nice and protective, _a thought says.

_You've earned the power to be independent. Move on,_ another thought whispers.

_Let go. No one will accuse you for letting go. It's what you should do. It's what omegas do._

_Don't. Not when you still don't know what letting go means to you. You can control this._

The war of thoughts leaves a ravenous hunger for deliverance and because Potter's reliable hand

Keeps him firmly anchored to meet and hold Potter's gaze, Draco curls up to Harry,

The desire to ask and get an answer pushes forth,

But it is the one surrender he manages to _not _perform.

Draco lets go of his body, briefly accepting the comfort that is Potter,

But holds onto the tight thread of his mind.

He had something to do. What is it?

_Be the greedy bridge, the middleman._

_If one can't survive on either side, do so on the boundary._

_Don't lose sight of the first purpose._

_Why did I come to the Muggle World in the first place?_

_To survive._

_Did I succeed? Yes._

He'll never be a Muggle.

But is he a Wizard?

Can one be named Wizard when one has almost given up on Magic?

_Tightrope walking. Trying not to fall._

_It's always a cliff and a cliff._

_Wizard and Muggle._

_Blaise and Potter._

_Family and Self._

_It's tiring, but if I have no place in two worlds,_

_I'll make the tightrope my realm._

_There is no shame in not choosing a side._

"Run out of blood?" chuckles Blaise, "A bravo to your bravado. I'm withdrawing a deposit, Potter. You're bound. With life.

Might I dare you to refuse?"

As soon as the word _refuse _leaves Blaise's mouth,

A coil of fire appears on Harry's wrist. The warning of the Unbreakable Vow.

Harry's cheeks sag in defeat,

While Blaise takes the empty wineglass, smirking widely.

Harry wants to burn the smirk off Blaise's blood-sucking lips

With a couple of overclocked Incendio.

But simultaneously as the thought occurs to him,

A second fiery coil appears on Harry's wrist. A second warning.

A claw protracts from Blaise's index finger.

Blaise flicks his claw smugly on the rim of the glass.

They hear the ensemble of a short _clack _and an echoing _ding._

Blaise's red pupils then narrow from triumph into a pair of cold, serpentine fury.

"Before that,

You'd be delighted to know that it was none other than your friend Hermione Granger

Who first warned Pansy and me.

Naturally, I was already aware when Draco failed to answer my Mirror call.

Your bet is ill-placed, Potter.

Now your underlings are collaborating with us against you.

I know a flunked investment when I see one.

All this is nothing more than your last-ditch attempts before... well, total bankruptcy, shall we say?"

"Keep going; you'll find a cannibal witch in the next Azkaban cell," replies Harry, "If it weren't for Draco and the Vow, I'd..."

"Harry, please," Draco puts an end to it with a squeeze on Harry's arm. "And you too, Blaise, don't stir him up."

"I'm worried for you and Pansy is distraught. Our offer still stands. You'll always have a place in the Palazzo or Pansy's. Living with this maniac is unhealthy."

"I decided to stay with Harry."

Blaise considers Draco for a moment and resumes flicking his claw on the glass. "Is that your decision? Draco, is it _your _decision?"

Draco smiles sadly. "There are no Potters in here speaking on my behalf," he says, pointing to his head.

"Zabini, you can stop second-guessing Draco. Take your blood and get out of my home," Harry growls.

Blaise removes his robe and unfastens the first two buttons of his shirt.

Harry pushes Draco aside. He extends a wrist to Blaise. "Fuck, I should've prepared blood vials."

Despite Harry's remark, an expectant expression envelops Blaise's usually cold and calculating features.

He slowly walks towards Harry, fangs descending, red eyes trained on the pulse point on Harry's wrist.

That is when Draco stops them both. He takes Harry's wrist and stays Blaise. "Wait. I'll do it."

The two alphas give him puzzled looks. Blaise, surprised out of his excitement, while Harry asks, "What do you mean?"

_Tightrope walking. Trying not to fall. There is no shame in not choosing a side._

"From now on, I want to be the one to supervise the feeding."

"You don't have to, Draco. The Unbreakable Vow ensures that this... half-blood behaves." Blaise's tone is both aggressive and satisfied; a vein is protruding on Harry's irritated jaw for all to see.

"No, give me this. I want to have this," Draco says.

Blaise's cocked head still shows he doesn't understand, but he relents and returns to his seat.

"Potter, I need a wand."

"What for?"

"Just lend me yours."

With Harry's wand in his hand, Draco makes a small puncture on Harry's wrist.

"I haven't done magic for some time, so I might slip."

"I can help—"

"No, Potter."

Harry's wand, however, works surprisingly well for Draco.

A spell draws a thin stream of blood from Harry's wrist.

The liquid follows the direction of Draco's wandwork,

Arching in the air and pooling into the empty wineglass Draco took from Blaise.

Draco doesn't leave it half-filled either. He continues until the glass is nearly full.

Draco brings the glass to Blaise.

Blaise drinks Harry's blood, moaning in pleasure, moaning as if he were having sex with the wineglass.

Harry grimaces in disgust when he sees Blaise's trousers tenting.

After he empties the wineglass, Blaise's eyes linger on Harry. It is a predatory and lustful stare.

Draco shakes Blaise a little. "That good?"

"...One moment, my love," replies Blaise, blinking rapidly to shake himself out of the haze. The tent of his trousers is receding.

Harry grimaces again, angrily.

He detests anyone who calls Draco like that.

He won't have Zabini and Draco form their own little bubble here in his house.

"Zabini, get lost if you're done."

Harry Charms Zabini's seat into life with a twitch of his finger. The animated chair bends one of its legs, dropping Blaise on the floor.

"Potter!" Draco yells.

"Don't worry. The Vow's not acting up. See?"

"Blaise, are you okay?"

"Oh, baby, come on. Zabini's fine. Vampires are made of tougher stuff. At any rate, good to know that I _can _annoy him if it doesn't hurt him. It was all an experiment, Draco."

Blaise stands quickly, straightening his dishevelled clothes.

With all his claws bared, he looks ready to spring and decapitate Harry.

Only the realisation that attacking Harry would put Draco in danger seems to sustain his patience.

Shaking his head, Blaise sighs. The claws revert back to harmless human fingernails.

Blaise pulls an envelope from the robe that had fallen to the floor as well.

"Gosh. Not another envelope," Harry teases, "You Purebl— I mean, Slytherins and your envelopes. What are you, Zabini, an omega writing love letters?"

"How childish, Potter. But _this _envelope is special. You'll love it. After all, it'll do a world of good for _my _Draco here."

"He's not yours. I staked my claim before you. Got the claim, too. Shame, yeah? Think twice about boasting your business acumen. Draco's mine. My Mate."

Draco wonders what's in the envelope.

He also wants to say he belongs to no one, but that would add fuel to the fire, so he just stays silent.

He also doesn't bother correcting Harry's take on omegas.

He puts on the most apologetic face he could handle and hopes Blaise would recognise it.

It takes Blaise a single look to identify the unsaid apology.

He hands the envelope to Draco.

"This one's for you, though I reckon the last ones were addressed to him."

Blaise kisses Draco lightly on the lips and leaves.

"See to it that the next batch of blood arrives in two days, Potter."

"See to it that you send word ahead, Creature."

* * *

Harry insists they should open Blaise's envelope together.

"It's not fair. I agreed to open Parkinson's bitchy Howler. I really didn't want to."

"Why are you so childish? It's got nothing to do with fairness. That was a Howler sent to you for kidnapping me, whereas this one a private letter. I'll show you depending on its contents."

"_I have a right to know—_that's what you said. I'm gonna say it too."

"For the love of... Fine!" Draco tosses the envelope at Harry. It hits his face. The face behind it exclaims, _Ow. _

"I know you're going to look even if I refuse, you're always like that, I've got no fucking privacy, not one second of my life. So fine! Look! Look and bloody eat it too, chew it, swallow it, make it yours as you've done with everything else in my life!"

Draco is genuinely angry, but some of him wishes his anger would stop Potter's nagging.

Only, he was a fool to hope.

Potter doesn't stop nagging. Potter is a big bloody toddler.

Potter always has his way. Feels no guilt as far as Draco's concerned.

He kicks Potter, who's trying to latch on him after his outburst.

He kicks him repeatedly.

Potter doesn't give up.

In the end, it's Draco who gives up.

He lets Potter's huge arms and hams bind him.

He lets Potter tuck him under his chin.

Draco gulps down the scalding ball of frustration that presses his collarbones.

Tears prickle his eyes when he finds it's not all resentment that he feels.

There is affection too.

He feels pity.

He sees it now.

Yes, Potter is a big baby. He'll never, never grow up.

Something is stunting—has stunted unknown depths of Potter's emotions.

Draco pities Harry for that.

Draco finds that not a small part of himself is actually mourning the man Potter could have become,

And the life he could've had without having to care about the big baby Potter.

He pities both himself and Potter.

And he begins to again question something he hasn't questioned since he left the nightmare of his past captivity.

Could it be that he's blaming the Bond for his affection?

Could it be it's himself that's feeling the affection?

_Do I love Potter?_

_Is this love?_

_Pity?_

_Affection?_

_Bond?_

By now Draco's eyes are veritable floodgates.

No sobs escape because he is clenching his teeth very hard.

Teardrops fall from his chin,

But Harry doesn't notice it because he's busy opening the envelope,

Because he's tucking Draco under his head.

Harry notices Draco's crying only when a teardrop falls on the envelope's content.

"Don't cry, baby, please, I love you so much," Harry whispers.

Sobbing and scoffing at the same time, Draco replies, "I'm not the baby."

"You are my baby," Harry says. "Don't cry? Please?"

"No, Potter. _You _are the baby," replies Draco for the second time. "You'll never get it."

Harry nibbles on Draco's ear. "I might if you tell me."

But neither of them remains interested in the issue of babies,

Because their shocked eyes follow the teardrop that travels down the invitation card.

The wet track begins from a capitalised **T**:

**The House Zabini**

cordially requests the honour of your presence

in the Handover

of the Malfoy Apothecary

to Mr Draco Lucius Malfoy, Heir of the Line of House Malfoy and of House Black

at the Palazzo Zabini

on Saturday, xx-xx-2009 at 07.30 p.m.

Evening Dress Robe

Guests to arrive between 06.50 and 07.10 p.m.

The invitation is followed by a note from Blaise in cursive:

_Draco, come the day before the ceremony._

_You are the first to receive this, we will send out the invitations tonight._

_My apologies for informing you at a moment's notice,_

_But we (by this I mean Pansy, Granger, and me) had limited time to make this happen._

_Yes, Potter, I know you are reading this now, you have not misread it,_

_Granger had a part in this. T_ _ake your troubles to her._

_Potter, you will not hinder Draco, for this is his birthright._

_The Malfoy Apothecary had been his family trade for more than a millennium until the hypocrites took it._

_For all the love you profess you did nothing to prevent the theft._

_You could have, with your influence, but you did nothing._

_I suspect it was a rather deliberate oversight on your part, but pray do not be offended (I doubt it),_

_As I said, it is only a suspicion._

_Dearest Draco, in all misfortune and unlikelihood, if your ill-mannered pet troubles you,_

_He may come along._

_Perhaps we can lodge him in the kennels where he belongs with his fellow beasts._

_With eternal love,_

_B. Z._

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you remember Chapter 17 of Waiting II (this fic):  
In her letter, Pansy congratulates Helene Zabini on the acquisition of the Malfoy Apothecary.  
That was a foreshadowing device for the ending arc of this series.


	34. Horn and Tail

"You weren't half bad with my wand," Harry says, a proud grin on his lips, Blaise's unpleasant visit briefly off his mind. "Not surprising, I guess, there's no reason my wand won't work for you since I had no problem with yours."

"Yes, you certainly had no qualms snapping mine half. How am I supposed to fix it," Draco deadpans at him. Draco's words aren't particularly thorny, but still do they wipe the smugness away from Harry's face. "Think just a little before you act, Potter. I can't go to Diagon Alley on my own. Ollivander would throw a hex the second he sees me at his door."

"It's all easily solved if I come with you."

Snatching a tissue from the table, Draco wipes the tear-tracks on his cheeks and blows his nose. "Potter, you wouldn't have to if you didn't start the bloody problem in the first place."

"I didn’t," Harry's tone is innocent.

"Yeah right," replies Draco dismissively, returning his attention to the invitation card. Harry tightens his hold. An uncomfortable groan escapes Draco, who tries his best to escape Harry's lap. Potter's body heat starts to damp Draco's back. Draco hates sweating. He prefers sweating on a broom in the open air or on a busy day at work than on Potter's lap.

Harry takes Draco's thrashing hand and keeps it firmly locked in his. "You gonna go to that... Handover ceremony?"

"I guess so," Draco ponders on his answer. "I don't know. That is—I don't know if you'd even let me. Don't take this wrong, I'm not saying I need your permission."

"Let's first go ask Mione what this is all about before anything."

Draco gives a small shake of his wrist to wriggle out of Harry's grip. "Not me, I'm not visiting _that_ couple."

"Stop squirming, will you... why on earth not?"

"Because it's not me who's got an issue with Granger."

"If she plotted this with Zabini and Parkinson without telling us, you do have an issue to clear up."

"Plot? What an interesting choice of word, Potter. So it's safe to say you aren't happy about the return of my family business, that right, no matter how hard I think I can't seem to grasp the logic of your sick mind... Oh wait, I actually have an idea. But I just about had it up to right here to credit your opinion on the matter."

Harry brushes Draco's hair back, massaging his scalp. "Come on, Draco. You're just invalidating what I told you because it's, well, me saying it. You do know this offer is too sudden. It’s too good to be true."

"Yeah? Unlike you, we Slytherins take care of our own."

A loud snort slips out of Harry's scoffing nose. "Really? That's not what I've seen after the War. None of your slimy snake friends had come to your rescue back then. I did. I defended you at court. It was me. It was me, although you sided with my parent's murderer—"

"Do _not, _Potter," Draco turns on Harry's lap to face him. He fists the collar of Harry's shirt, resentful eyes smouldering with rage, hands shaking Harry at every stressed word. "You will not play the guilt game with me. You testified for me because it was in your ability; you did as long as it served your purpose. We all _do _as long as we _can_. Worse, we all _can _as long as we _do. _We all have our ulterior motives. Don't pretend you're an exception. I've seen too much of you to know you aren't the Saint Potter they think you are. You were not the tragic orphan as you fashion yourself so; you had others filling the role of your dear deceased parents. Dumbledore, Professor Snape, McGonagall, the Weasleys, my dead traitor cousin Sirius and his dead filthy Werewolf; you had _everyone_. Nor have you ever experienced poverty like the others there at Nocturn Alley. Not nearly as rich as I had been, but you too were born rich and now you’re shitting gold. You had a maniac obsessed over you, yes, but indeed that must be the sole misery you've ever known. So don't you play the victim and expect me to concur. I am nauseated by self-righteous people like you who ignore the other half of this fucked-up world, which is a fucked-up story cover to cover, and in all sincerity I agree with Pansy and Blaise's verdict that you and your heroic sidekicks are hypocrites. In any case, people around you have exacerbated that innate streak of hypocrisy you have, or shall I say, you've surrounded yourself with such people? I dare you contest me: no doubt lowlifes like Weasel's fat mother humoured you all these years, something like _oh, poor orphan Harry dear, let us be your family_... Tell me, Potter, did that senile coot Dumbledore call you _Harry my dear _or _Harry my boy _before Snape put his old bones to rest?"

Harry feels as if he's been slapped several times over, but he presses his mortification and anger down before they brim over to make him do something he would regret. They are already caught up in too many troubles. Harry can't, however, prevent his fist from rising involuntarily when Draco’s insult echoes in his head.

Noticing Draco flinch at his raised fist, Harry controls himself once more, the blow turning to a caress by a whisker before touching Draco's face. “You see me as this sociopath. I’m this sicko seizing up every moment of your life to make you miserable and nothing can convince you that I’m not.”

“Sociopath—I know that word. That’s what you Muggles… oh, please do pardon me, you’re not, technically you’re not a Muggle, I mean that’s the Muggle word for their… Undesirables in general, correct? Their version of a magic spell, combining Latin here and there to cook up high-flown words so they can walk out of a problem. I’m not letting you off that easily. You did what you did to me fully aware what it meant. And you are far from a sociopath, Potter. Consider Undesirables, you’d been one. People become Undesirable until they have nothing desirable left to give, and you’ve got an army of admirers still fawning over your heroism. Merlin, I’d thought your fame would fade in time, but it’s only increased now, have you read that preposterous Twiggles and Twigs storybook eternalising your legendary victory? It appears you pulled a Quidditch move on Lord Voldemort the Pigsnout, breaking his neck with your princely broom feint. So no, not in a lifetime will you be considered a sociopath: they have decided that you are desirable. You are not a sociopath. You _cannot _become a sociopath, because they have decided that you will never be one.”

Harry smiles. “You read storybooks about me? I didn’t know you were one of my fans.”

“I’m not and that’s not the point! I just stumbled across—”

“Stumbled how, Draco? You’ve practically renounced the Wizarding World. You don’t come across magical books in Muggle bookstores.”

Draco bites his lips. “I—”

Harry cuts in. “Yeah, I get it, you did it out of habit, maybe. In Hogwarts I started my day searching for your name on the Marauder’s Map, and went to sleep pretty much the same. I wouldn’t be surprised if you had your own cute obsession over me.”

“Don’t speak for me. I’m not obsessed.”

Harry cups Draco’s face, eyes wide open, confronting Draco’s own. “You are. You are obsessed too,” Harry whispers savagely. “Obsession doesn’t click one-way. It has to be reciprocated. I’m not a fool. Years and years, we’ve been orbiting each other. It goes both ways. But forget it. I am one-hundred percent sure that your rant is bullshit. Believe it or not, I cared. I’m human too, Draco. I’m not always calculating. I defended you because I believed you were wrongfully accused of things you didn’t do. Is it so hard to believe that I did it for all the right reasons?”

Draco doesn’t want to admit it, but the earnestness of Harry’s expression mildly flatters his pride. Draco’s next words don’t sound stern enough for his liking. “There you go. It couldn’t be too hard for you then to reciprocate in like manner. My friends had my best interest in mind too when they planned this, I’m sure of it.”

“That’s not what I’m worried about,” replies Harry, pushing Draco aside gently.

“Then why are you so restless.”

“Zabini and Parkinson _will _use this as a leverage to take you from me.”

Draco laughs, shaking his head. “That again? They can’t. We’re Bonded. Blaise needs your blood. If there’s one thing you’ve nailed properly, it’s chaining me to you. Forever, until death do us part. Yes, I accept that, loathe am I to say it. Rest at ease, Potter.”

“But—”

“You’re getting on my nerves.”

“Let me speak, Draco. What if Helene Zabini’s masterminding this?”

“Oh, there’s no question. She’s definitely played a hand in this. Haven’t you learnt enough about us? Purebloods are seldom philanthropists. There’s got to be some profit arrangement for her. But it won’t bring me any harm or Blaise would’ve warned me. It’s even safer with Granger cooperating, do you not know her better than I do? By the way, I meant proper Purebloods, not substandard blood-traitors like Weas—”

Harry sends a warning glare at his Mate. “Draco.”

“Oh, fuck you,” a long, slender middle finger assails Harry’s vision. “You’re the last person on Earth who can lecture me. You were shit-talking Purebloods literally minutes ago, so shut it.”

“Do you have to be a little shit every time? I thought you said you’d try.”

“Despite overwhelming evidence of the contrary, Potter, I’m not incapable of social charms. I was _trained _to be charming. It’s just that you bring out the worst of me. You should be proud!”

“Just remember this is your home and you promised to live here.”

“Look, I did tell you I’d try, love and all that oversentimental stuff. But you ought to hear me out, that’s my one condition. I want to talk to Steve and repair my wand, too. You didn’t let me get my things, so I should go to my flat. In fact, I’m going. Right now.”

Harry stands and snaps his fingers. A rush of magic smooths the wrinkles of his clothes. “Fine, but I’ll come with you. And we’re not done talking about Zabini.”

“Just shut up and do your trick again,” replies Draco, pointing at his own clothes creased by Harry’s incessant touch. “You know, I used to think perhaps getting rid of my wand would be necessary to live in the Muggle World, but now I can’t wait to get it repaired.”

“Hn,” snorts Harry. He extends a hand to Draco, who frowns at it.

Harry shrugs, a playful grin ghosting over his mouth. “If you prefer walking, fine by me.”

Draco takes Harry’s hand. He doesn’t forget to pinch Harry’s wrist as hard as he can while Harry Side-Alongs them to his previous flat. He feels a little better when he hears Harry’s pained grunt.

* * *

They Apparate into a dark flat.

“Steve?” Draco calls. Not hearing an answer, he proceeds to knock softly on Steve’s room. “Steve, you there?”

Another rap of knocks and a muffled voice calls from the other side. “Wha—? Who’s there?”

“It’s me. Draco.”

Creaking bed and closing footsteps tell him Steve has been sleeping. Steve almost jumps in mixed delight when he sees Draco, but it sours into apprehension when the sight of Harry enters his vision.

“You weren’t home for how many days now—I don’t know, you got me worried, man,” says Steve, “So Harry’s got something to do with it, huh.”

“Potter’s got _everything _to do with it,” answers Draco.

“As I should,” chimes Harry.

Draco’s lower chin slants and his nose turns up. His nostrils flare a little before they surrender their breath to the words, “Potter, can you give us a moment? Maybe you can look around my room.”

Finding his suspicion unprovoked before a Muggle, Harry merely shrugs and does as he is asked.

“Sorry I haven’t got the chance to tell you,” Draco says, “I’m used to Potter’s possessiveness but there are bad times.”

Steve yawns loudly, covering his mouth. “Don’t say sorry. I knew it’d be him. Welcome home, though.”

“About that—Steve… I’m moving out.”

Steve bites a hangnail off his thumb, then spits it to the side. “Wow. That came out of nowhere. Why, did Harry ask you to?” His question is quiet. The hangnail falls somewhere on the floor, invisible, and Draco thanks Merlin for small blessings like that because he has an excuse to avoid meeting Steve’s eyes.

“Yeah. I promise I’ll tell you all about it later. But I have to go.”

“Now? Will we ever meet again?” asks Steve.

Draco gives Steve’s shoulder a small squeeze. “What kind of question is that? I’ll say it again: I’ll tell you what happened later. There’s your answer.”

“I should help you packing.”

“Thanks, but no. Abracadabra and all that. Besides, I think Potter’s Shrunk everything by now. He has this idea in his head that my things are his things.”

Steve grins a little when Draco sneers talking about Harry. “Shrunk?”

“Oh, yes. It’s how wizards carry things around. Minimising things so they fit in your pocket.”

“Draco?”

“Yeah?”

“This is just so mushy, but I wanted tell you, meeting you was probably one of the best experiences in my life. I mean, you’re the living proof that Dungeons & Dragons is bloody real!”

“What’s that?”

“It’s, uh, role-playing game. You sit around with your lads and role-play. Pretend you’re all wizards and warriors.”

Draco crosses his arms, smirking. Steve never fails to make him feel better. “And I presume there are dragons involved somehow?”

“Yeah! Breathing fire and frost…” Steve’s eyes twinkle in expectant excitement, as if he were waiting for Draco to confirm their existence.

“A particularly aggressive breed is native to Hungary,” Draco explains, his thoughts faraway into the past. _Hungarian Horntail. Triwizard Tournament. _“What if I told you Potter defeated one single-handedly?”

“No way,” Steve whoops in the air, still in his pajamas. He’s like an oversized kid, Draco thinks. When he calms down enough, Steve gives Draco a peculiar look.

A silver eyebrow arches on Draco’s forehead. “What.”

“Man, you really are smitten with Harry, aren’t you.”

Another silver eyebrow shoots up towards Draco’s hairline. “What?”

“You got this look, Draco. When you talk about Harry. Not just this time. I don’t know if it’s that Bond thing, but I’ve fucked enough people to know what genuine infatuation looks like.”

Draco’s mouth opens and closes like a catfish.

He realises Steve isn’t wrong.

He had thought Potter was hot when he defeated that Horntail.

He still feels Potter is hot when he thinks about it.

From the room, Harry’s voice carries over.

“Draco, love, I packed your stuff, let’s go!”

* * *


	35. Wand

_Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C., _the slogan reads.

Draco reads the strapline. "Makers of Fine Wands."

He vaguely remembers doing that when he was a small kid, excited to have his first wand.

He also remembers: Father was not pleased he got the Unicorn Hair core.

Reminiscing helps to distract him from the small crowd of Potty's insufferable fans and paparazzis that have been following them all the way since they passed _Quality Quidditch Supplies_.

And good Salazar, they've gotten so much more creative with their questions.

"Mr Potter, what do you find in Mr Malfoy that makes him so dear to you?"

Draco is about to give the offending reporter a piece of his mind, but Potter beats him to it.

"You an idiot?" jeers Potter loudly. The crowd yells at the reporter, too.

"Excuse me?" The reporter asks.

Someone strikes the back of his head with a freshly-bought stalk of broccoli.

The reporter draws his wand. "The next bastard will grow a thorn on his eye!"

Peals of insulting laughter trills from the crowd.

"Draco and I are Mated for life. That's so much more than liking him," explains Potter.

An egg, thrown by someone in the crowd, hits the reporter's balding head.

The egg white splats all over his forehead.

The yolk remains whole on the reporter's head.

The reporter Vanishes the mess, but with his pride broken apart like eggshell,

He Apparates away.

Another reporter, young enough to be mistaken as a student, steps forth.

Camera in hand, eyes twinkling.

A brief gloom passes on Harry's brows.

Sadness strums on the Bond much like a plucked bass string.

Feeling the emotion, Draco gives Harry a questioning look.

Potter's voice echoes in Draco's mind. _I'm reminded of Colin Creevey._

Draco's reply is a quiet thought. _It's no one's fault and his brother lives on to continue the legacy of his family._

_Colin died a kid; he has no legacy, _retorts Harry sharply. _What good did Lucius's legacy do you anyway._

_Watch it, Potter, he was my father. You have no say in this when your mother left her legacy in you._

_Fine. I'll shut up. I just feel like shit, alright?_

_Whatever. Just don't let any of that shit on me. _

Contrary to his words, however, Draco locks his hand with Harry's. _It's the Bond, _he doesn't forget to add.

Harry smiles weakly.

They both know the Bond no longer has that much control on Draco.

"Smile wider, Misters Potter, you two make a great picture," Girl Colin says.

"_Misters_ Potter?" repeats an amused Harry, "I like that. Don't you, Draco?"

Draco forces an impeccable grin. "Yes, my love. Draco Potter. Four syllables, but they leave a rather peculiar aftertaste, wouldn't you say? Almost as good as Harry Malfoy."

A strong arm winds around Draco's waist. "Harry Malfoy sounds good."

"Yeah, it's easy to say when you're the alpha," mumbles Draco so the crowd doesn't hear them.

Girl Colin interrupts. "Can I take your picture? If you don't mind, I mean, Misters Potter."

"Mister Potter _and _Mister Malfoy, if you please, Miss. Let's get started."

Through the lens, Girl Colin sees Draco's eyes on the spot just above the lens, like a trained socialite.

Harry, on the other hand, is looking at Draco.

_That's a huge thick bubble he's in, _thinks Girl Colin.

* * *

"That wasn't so bad," says Harry when they are behind the shop door.

Draco watches the dust floating in the sunbeam of the window. "No, it wasn't so bad. Considering I half expected them to attack me."

Outside, the crowd has begun dispersing.

"You know, if we had a son, I'd respect your family tradition and name him after a constellation. Scorpius--yeah, Scorpius Potter."

"Male omegas do not bear children," Draco says coldly.

"We're wizards. There's got to be some magic."

"Haven't you had enough with the Dark Lord, Potter?

Even if such magic exists, magic that creates life always exacts a price.

Think of what I had to do just to _tamper _with my own life.

And there is _no _way I am putting a fetus inside me. It's got to be fatal."

Harry bends to the side to make out the shop counter over the mountains of narrow boxes obscuring his vision.

"It's just a thought," he replies. "In any case now you can return. You've left the Wizarding World long enough for them to forget," he tells Draco.

Draco pokes a yellowing box hanging precariously on an unstable mound.

"Incorrect. They don't forget. They merely found someone else to take my place, is the likeliest answer.

They won't forget unless the people of our generation all die, their memories with them.

They won't forget unless they toil in suffering so profound they can see nothing but suffering.

They won't forget unless they have so much fun that other things don't interest them."

"People are not so... eidetic, Draco. They just go about doing their business, most of the time."

"Yes. Most of the time. Not all. And the thing with time, it rolls from _most _to _least _in a blink."

"So you're staying away from the Wizarding World for good?"

"I don't feel safe here. Home is wherever I say it is. This isn't my home."

"But I am?" grins Harry proudly.

Draco doesn't answer. He stays the wavering mound of boxes.

At the end of the line of shelves, Garrick Ollivander has emerged from his room, beckoning to them.

As he walks towards him, Draco looks back at Harry and delivers the answer.

"I am."

Harry's face falls.

"You can stay in places I call home," Draco offers. "Since you'll force yourself in anyway.

You've been inside me body and mind, literally."

Harry's face lights up.

* * *

"Ten full inches, reasonably springy," says Ollivander, examining Draco's snapped wand.

"Reasonably willing to adapt, reasonably willing to change,

Usually found in pursuit of a full life.

But springy doesn't mean unbreakable, now, does it, Harry Potter?"

For the first time since they arrived, Draco sports a genuine smirk at Potter.

Somehow Potter has a soft spot for people who knew him as a child.

Ollivander had seen him an eleven-year-old boy,

And Draco realises Potter is fidgeting under Ollivander's scolding eyes.

Ollivander seems to have figured out Potter's the one who snapped Draco's wand.

"It's most fortunate I happen to have a stock of the same wandwood.

But the core... can't be salvaged.

The stallion from which the hair came was a hardy one, that.

I wonder if it prowls the Forbidden Forest still.

The core served you well, Mr Malfoy.

Unicorn Hair is the hardest to turn to the Dark Arts.

So here you are now."

Draco tries to put on the most contrite expression he could manage.

"Before anything, Mr Ollivander, I wanted to say I deeply regret the torture inflicted on you.

It was my home where it happened.

But it's not anymore, if it makes you feel better."

"You were not my tormentor, so the apology is unnecessary, Mr Malfoy.

But a shame what this wand has gone through.

I take these things very seriously; after all, I'm a wandmaker.

Now, we will replace the core with the tail-hair of another unicorn."

"We?" asks Harry.

"Yup, Mr Potter," answers another voice. It's Ollivander's son, who has emerged from the same back door. Older than both of them. _He's old enough to be my father_, Harry thinks. "Sorry, sorry. I've been eavesdropping."

"Meet my son, he's a better wandmaker than I am, and not just because he's my son. A little less traditional for my liking, perhaps, but his wands are already on the market under the family name." Ollivander beams proudly at his son. They are both veritable grandfathers, but the son hides no boyish excitement before his father.

"Oh, Draco Malfoy, Hawthorn-and-Unicorn Hair, 10-inches and springy! I've so wanted to meet you," Ollivander Jr says. "I mean, your wand, not you, sorry, sorry. It is my heart's desire to meet all the veteran wands of the Second Wizarding War, and... Mr Potter! Now this is what we're talking about! Do you have your Holly-and-Phoenix Feather with you? My father didn't let me help him when he crafted that wand. You must let me see the twin--"

Garrick Ollivander clears his throat, and his son's voice quietens before shooting up once more. "Sorry, sorry. I was thrilled, is all. I've unearthed some wandlore from our dusty desks. Newest--or, oldest, as the case may be--wandcraft for Unicorn Hair core. With this, father can't say Unicorn tail hair's the weakest among the three Supreme Cores. You see, if we use a golden tail hair of a foal as the core, it will feed on the magic cast with the wand throughout the wizard's life, in time maturing to perfectly meet the master's temperament and ability. In a way, it may even surpass the Dragon Heartstring, depending on the master!"

"And you're gonna use it for Draco's wand?" asks Harry.

"But of course, Mr Potter. Foal hair also has an important magical significance: a new, clean beginning. What more could Mr Malfoy possibly need?"

Annoyed dimples form on Draco's twitching cheeks. "What?"

"Yeah. What did you mean by that," challenges Harry.

"Pardon his manners, sometimes he doesn't watch his mouth," Mr Ollivander says.

Ollivander Jr clonks his knuckles on his own head. "I meant no offence. Sorry, sorry."

Draco sighs. "Can we just move on to business?"

Ollivander Jr Levitates Draco's snapped wand and casts a series of extremely fine-tuned Reparos.

The aged Hawthorn which Mr Ollivander summoned from his inventory melds seamlessly with the cracks and stumps.

Before he finishes the wandcraft, Ollivander Jr extracts Draco's now-defunct wandcore.

The unicorn hair has lost its silver glow, Draco could see it.

In its place is inserted a short, golden tail hair of a unicorn foal.

_More innocent than a stallion, more willing to learn, and certainly more powerful, for the magic of a Unicorn comes from its innocence, _says Mr Ollivander.

His voice echoes in the dusty room between the incantations of his son.

_It will grow, Mr Malfoy, to become a silver unicorn hair core. But it will grow to match you. Yourself._

When Draco holds his newly repaired Hawthorn-and-Unicorn Hair wand in his hand,

A stream of pure silver spark bursts forth from the tip, warm wind tickling his platinum locks.

Unbeknownst to himself, he whispers, "Thank you, Potter. For accompanying me here."

The silver lights now dance around Draco, occasionally mirrored on his clear grey eyes.

Harry feels as if he were Imperiused.

"Anytime, Draco, anytime."

* * *


	36. Berries

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Justin Finch-Fletchley was in Waiting 1.  
Refer to Chapter 20 and Chapter 25 of Waiting 1 for his sub-plot.
> 
> **omg so many typos and errors, sorry. I corrected most of them.

* * *

Beneath the opulence of the Palazzo Zabini, when all others are fast asleep, the mistress alone is wide awake, moistening her lips on wine and nibbling on candied berries in a place hardly meant for desserts. The dungeons of the palace is a perpetually dark place, enchanted so that no light may enter save on the pleasure of the captor. The mouldy stone walls and slippery flagstones smell of rat droppings and other slimes of vile nature, yet Helene seems entirely at home even as the stench soaks her robe.

In her manicured hand a tiny silver fork lances through a rose-sugared berry. Red juice bleeds through the crack of the glaze. The bowl of berries follows her, floating in the air.

Helene approaches a cell, armed with an impaled berry. "Did you know, Mister Finch-Fletchley, that the brain is cruel? Not just to its fellow brains, but to itself as well."

A drop of red juice hits the cold stone floor. The same floor where Justin is crouching. Green-and-brown moss covers the floor. Scampering forth, Justin's knees trip over a hard something which turns out to be a yellowing human bone.

"Where am I?" asks Justin, mustering the scraps of his courage. He knows where he is, he knows who it is before him, but he needs to hear her voice, because the fog of fear in his mind prevents him from making an accurate assessment of his predicament. Another's voice may drive the fog away.

"The dungeons of Palazzo Zabini," replies Helene, bringing the berry to her mouth. She continues only after she swallows the berry. "I'm the kind that operates from comfort. Where else would we get candied berries?"

Cold sweat beads on Justin's temple. He feels his lips moving, _what do you want, _although he finds he is not in the least interested in the answer because his fear and shock are too great. His hands and feet are cold on the stone floor. _Is this about those five million galleons, _his mouth moves again, against his will. He has to fill the silence that promises dark things, cruel things.

He had been going through the same checklist, the same schedule of his retired--retired, they said, but who the fuck retires at thirty? He had lost his chance in the Ministry and he was made insignificant, made _redundant_, take a day or two off they said, days became weeks and then months. Justin finally realised he was over. He was really, truly over when not even the press wanted to cover the story of his fall. He had once dreamed to become the Minister for Magic. A Muggleborn Minister for Magic. Now he is... what? He had been going through the same schedule, taking his evening stroll, when four men Apparated and surrounded him. He didn't even have the time to defend himself. Four Stunning Spells hit his body. And now he sees one of the most feared women in the Wizarding World before him, the woman whose money he had used for his campaign. _What do you want?_

"Have a berry," says Helene, ignoring Justin's question. The wand in her left hand directs a berry out of the floating bowl towards Justin.

The words are not what Justin expects. "What?"

"Have a berry, Mr Finch-Fletchley. Goodness, it's just too long, your name. I hope I do have permission to call you Justin. After all, you and I are about to know each other intimately. That sounds delightful, doesn't it, Justin?"

When the berry touches his mouth, Justin spits violently and swats the berry away with his hand. The candied berry falls on the floor. "It's poisoned! You're killing me," Justin shouts.

Helene raises a dainty hand to her lips, her chuckles muffled behind her hand. "No, by Morgana, no, Justin. You are our guest here. If I wanted to kill you, I would've sent an assassin after you. So much less to deal with. Or, perhaps a quick Killing Curse instead. I'm a woman of simple tastes. Now, have a berry. I insist. Of course, there's always a chance of Cruciatus if you refuse to partake."

A swish of Helene's wand brings another berry to Justin, who receives it with much trepidation. He lets out a relieved breath when he finds the berry is harmless behind his throat.

"How do you like it?" asks Helene, "Blueberries and strawberries, cared by the best herbologists Magical Italy has to offer, cultivated on Unicorn manure and Boom Berry compost. Put this way, it doesn't sound that appetizing, does it?"

"It's... sweet," Justin's answer is uncertain.

"Just sweet?"

"What else can it be, it's a bloody berry. Let me go."

"So... just sweet. I'm not sure I like that. _Crucio._"

Justin's body stiffens, his limbs curling unto themselves grotesquely. His mouth opens in agony, yet no sound escapes him; the pain is too great for him to even manage a yelp. Helene lifts her wand after ten exact seconds.

"You... you told me... you told me you wouldn't..." rasps Justin.

"The brain is a cruel thing. I never said that. I said, _there is always a chance of Cruciatus. _Now, have another berry. Taste it carefully."

"I can't, I'd throw up..."

"Oh, come now, Justin. Would it help if I said your wife and daughter's lives depended on it?"

Justin opens his mouth and does as he is told. In his mouth the berry bursts into a harmony of tastes both sweet and sour, however, the notion of _deliciousness _does not come to Justin's mind: Helene's wand is still trained at him, ready to cast whichever curse on the whim of the Dark witch.

"Well?"

"It's... it's sweet..."

"I'm sure you can be more creative. _Crucio._"

Another ten torturous seconds pass, and Justin lies heaving on the floor. "Ten seconds," Helene says, "ten seconds and it feels so much longer, doesn't it? The brain is cruel. Now. Have another berry and tell me how it tastes. There's a bowl full of berries here."

"A bowl full of...? No. No."

Helene raises her eyebrows in mock surprise. "I thought they were just sweet?"

"It's a bowl full of Cruciatus, I will not be able to last and you said you didn't want to kill me."

"Correct! These are not berries. Here is a bowl of Cruciatus! The brain, indeed, is a cruel thing, Justin. Now you will not be able to have a tiny pinch of berry without being reminded of your ordeals here for the rest of your life. _Crucio._"

This time, the Curse lasts longer. When it finally ends Justin's eyes water and his ears deafen. His limbs convulse on their own, his lips are bleeding from the involuntary bite of his agonised teeth, his clothes are drenched in sweat although the dungeons are cool enough to store meat.

Buried under her voluminous fur robe, Helene glares with hatred in her eyes. The composed smile she has been maintaining is now wiped clean from her face, replaced by a malevolent scowl. "You asked what I want, Mudblood," she says. Justin Finch-Fletchley is now neither Justin nor Mr Finch-Fletchley. He is now a Mudblood. "I want what you stole returned. I cannot believe you couldn't figure it out on your own."

"But you _donated _those five million galleons..."

"Five _and_ a half, out of which you squandered four and a half."

"So this is about money, is it?" Justin laughs helplessly. "I don't have it. It's gone, it's all deadweight, those four and a half million galleons."

"Four and a half million galleons," repeats Helene. "Four and a half, which were not yours. An amount some could only dream. A number for which many would kill. When you appropriated the money, we decided to wait and see, for you would owe us a favour should the gold helped you succeed. But you were outmanoeuvred, it seems. That is why we Zabinis seldom become politicians ourselves, my dear. It's much like gambling. In politics, you lose once, you lose for good."

"I have no way of returning--"

"Of course, if you cannot return the money, as the representative of your investors I shall have to make do with your family. I hear capable witches are in high demand in Magical Netherlands. I can imagine. Intelligence is an asset to a successful courtesan; you have to guess what your patron wants. Your wife was a Ravenclaw, wasn't she. Smart girls know how to please. I know this because I'm a smart girl myself. She will be put to _work_, more each day than the last, until all 4.5 million galleons are returned. And should her efficiency is exhausted, perhaps we will put _you _to work. You don't exactly cut the figure but there are people who would pay _handsomely _for painful sessions which I can only find distasteful."

"You lay a finger on my family, I'll kill you!" Spit flies from Justin's shouting mouth. "You hear me? I'll fucking kill you!"

"How, Mudblood? Here you are now, locked under my cage. Like cattle. And I have your wand. You are as helpless as the Purebloods you were harassing after the War."

"Even if you sell both of us, there is no way you could have your gold back."

Helene scoffs. With a wave of her wand she Blasts a rat that scurries past the end of her fur robe. "Gold? Do you think this is about gold? Four and a half millions are just a name. It is _ownership _that I want back."

Justin's defiant tone loses its edge. He tries to speak over his teeth that were chattering from the cold and the Cruciatus. "I don't understand."

"Do you have any idea what it means to own?" asks Helene, "To own--that means what you have is yours to treat as you please. You could swallow a pair of scissors and die, but no one would care if you owned those scissors. Yet if you swallow someone's scissors, then it becomes complicated, from the Ministry of Magic down to the Daily Prophet! Ownership, Mudblood. Ownership is what we all live for. Own money. Own power. Own all and everything more. Was it not the will to own that drove you Mudbloods to hound us after the Second Wizarding War? And own you did! Look at what you have done to the Malfoys. If it weren't for the Ministry's scandalous secrets we had accumulated over the years, House Zabini would have gone down too. It's all own versus own, dog eat dog. There is no need to argue morality. What are we if not contenders in the race towards ownership? Win and become an owner, lose and be owned. And merchants such as House Zabini are the heralds of that desire: the desire to own. A merchant should make every dream come true for the right price. This is how we Zabinis have survived for centuries, and not Tom Riddle, not his gang of Death Eaters could do away with us because they were only human--they too sought to own, and I was the best procurer of the objects they desired! What is life, if not desire blazing perpetually until the flames incinerate you down to embers? But there is one thing a merchant must not forget--in fact, it's the one thing we all must not forget to avoid being owned. To remain on the race track, to remain in the trade, one must _never _allow one's ownership be threatened. And that was your miscalculation, Mudblood. I have triumphed this long as a woman and an omega because I refused to let men and alpha threaten my ownership of myself. You made my allies _question _the permanence of my ownership over the state of things. Thus, I shall make an example of you to nurse the wounded pride of House Zabini."

"...Are you going to kill me?"

"That is not how I play this game, Mudblood. Shall we say, you could spend the rest of your life here eating berries, oh, don't fret so. Berries are _just sweet. _Or, you could help me with a certain venture. In which case you will leave unscathed. I will even write off your debt, and you will walk away with enough gold to make a come back to the Ministry."

Justin casts a suspicious glance at Helene, still shaking. "I could... go... straight to the DMLE... after I leave this place."

"You could try," Helene smiles radiantly. "And find out what happens next. Consider how I managed to bring you here unnoticed. So. Do we have an accord?"

Helene receives a grudging but acquiescent answer. "... Yes. Yes, we have an accord. What do you want me to do?"

"Simple. I would expand the influence and business of House Zabini, but the Wizarding World is too small a pool. Out there lies the Muggle World, the great uncharted waters where billions of gold await. Unlike most of my brethren, I have no qualms mingling with Mudbloods and Muggles should it further the power of our house. But I would attract far too much attention, and so would my son, and we will be considered traitors by the Purebloods. I have plans to delegate my business through the Malfoy Apothecary. Draco has already made his place in the Muggle World. Are you aware?"

"I know he's left Magical Britain."

"And has braved Muggle Britain. He's almost as good as a Muggle, can you imagine that? Draco Malfoy, one of the purest among our kind, now serving food to Muggle patrons! No doubt we owe you that, Mudblood." Helene regards Justin as one would a pile of dung.

"I understand now," Justin says, having calmed down somewhat. "You want me to find loops through the Statute of Secrecy so Draco Malfoy could operate a magical business in Muggle London."

"You catch on quick."

"But you've forgotten one thing. Malfoy is Harry's omega. What makes you think he wouldn't interfere with your plans?"

"If I needed you to do anything about Harry Potter, I would have mentioned him. Put him out of your mind. He won't be a problem. Basso!"

The stern majordomo of Palazzo Zabini pops from the air. "Basso be answers Mistress," the house-elf says.

"Heal Mr Finch-Fletchley and give him the galleons I have readied in my room. Escort him home and be discreet."

"Basso be doing as Mistress commands," the elf answers reverently before disappearing with Justin.

* * *


End file.
